


Served

by stevita



Category: Original Work
Genre: Addiction, Belly Kink, Breaking the Bed, F/M, Feeding Kink, Food Kink, Food Porn, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gaslighting, Hypnotism, Mind Control, Multi, Prison Sex, Satire, Socialism, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 39
Words: 194,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25408177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevita/pseuds/stevita
Summary: Damian got a job in a restaurant in an attempt to straighten out his life. He never expected to meet Christyn, a service industry veteran with a flair for mind control...or to develop fantasies of her fattening him up. When she agrees to indulge his desires, it's only the beginning of their grand misadventure through the Houston restaurant industry...not to mention the prison industrial complex.This is meant to be both a feedist romance and an unsettling economic satire.(Warnings are there for stuff that happens at the hands of various antagonists; the two main characters ain't like that and any upcoming noncon or sensitive material is preceded by a trigger warning in the beginning of the chapter.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the following is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual people, living or dead, is a complete coincidence. 
> 
> That said...
> 
> "Auralee," I still have your cereal bowl. 
> 
> "Zeke," I still have your coat. And your boots. 
> 
> "Shane," never let this world take your patience and generosity. 
> 
> "Alex," you still owe me for the hospital bill and the window.
> 
> "Jesse," for forcing me to take hold of my inner strength, sometimes when I'm drinking I take an extra shot for you. 
> 
> "Damian," bon voyage.

**PROLOGUE**

Two years in Kegans State Jail wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened to Damian, but it was no walk in the park either. He knew how lucky he should feel that he hadn’t caught another charge in there and had time added to his sentence, or worse, gotten moved to federal.

Like the guy he’d mouthed off at a few months into his sentence, who’d declared in retaliation, to the surrounding crowd of inmates, “Hey, I got five soups for whoever beats the shit outta this guy!” Or the guy who’d delivered the beating in exchange for five soups.

Damian had metal plates in his skull thanks to that incident, but at least he was free.

He’d been on the outside for a couple of days now, squatting in a house that was under construction, but looked like it was going to be mighty fine and fancy when it was done. He didn’t know where else to go. Damned if he was going to call his sister. Before his arrest, he’d been with a girl named Christyn, but he didn’t have her number committed to memory.

It was late, and he was standing at the self-checkout of a 24-hour grocery store, paying for a single pack of ramen noodles with small change he’d found on the sidewalk and roadway throughout the day. It made him think of that beat down for those five soups, and of something someone had once said to him: If you look for pennies all day, you’ll find ramen. Who had said that? He racked his brain...nothing.

Just as his receipt printed and he prepared to go back to the half-finished house and eat his noodles dry, a beep from the next checkstand drew his attention. He wouldn’t have looked twice, but the woman standing there looked just like Christyn…

No. It was her. Her hair was dyed a darker shade of blonde than he remembered, but other than that, she looked almost the same. Red lipstick, dark eyeliner, black button down on black slacks. She must have just gotten off work. She was a little thinner, and he didn’t like it. He knew her well enough to know it was a sign that she was under a tremendous amount of stress. He’d gotten thinner, too, without her to take care of him, not to mention other inmates taking his food in the lockup (although he never dared say a thing about it, or they’d take his ass, too.) Her eyes were downcast and she was listening to music in her earbuds.

He approached her cautiously from the side. He hoped maybe that in seeing him, she’d take pity on him and buy him a soda. He hoped he hadn’t run out of chances with her, after everything that had happened between them over the last few years. He hoped, at the least, that she would look at him. He just wanted to look in her eyes again.

She didn’t startle as he touched her lightly on the arm. For a second, he expected to find he’d made a mistake--either he had the wrong woman, or he was wishfully hallucinating. But it was her, alright. She turned her head, only her head, appraised him up and down, blinked slowly, and took out one earbud. In the relative silence of the supermarket, he could hear the old 80’s song she was listening to. “Well I’ll be fucked,” she muttered. Then, more audibly, “It’s been a hot minute, Damian. And boy, do you look terrible.”

He winced. “You look beautiful. But you’d look terrible, too, if you were homeless.”

She glanced away for a second. Paused to pay for her single purchase: a 24-pack of dish soap--and hoisted it over her left shoulder like a dinner tray. Looked back at him, deliberated for a long moment, and said, “You’re out early.”

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve, thanks to you. You don’t sound happy.”

“Of course I’m happy! I just...well, the house is a mess. I would have done something about it if I knew you’d be out. That is, if you even want to come back and stay with me?”

“You don’t have to--”

“I do, though,” she said. “I know when you lied to the cops, you were trying to have my back. Be fucked up if I didn’t get yours.”

He walked a couple paces behind her until they were out the automatic door; then, she wedged a black linen restaurant napkin out of her back pocket and said, “Put this over your eyes.”

“What--?”

“I’m involved in something now, something bigger than you or me, and, well, I don’t want to take too many risks. So you don’t get to see which car is mine.”

“I still remember your car, Chris.”

“You mean the one you crashed? I bought a new one.”

His cheeks flushed hot. “It was that bad?”

“Just put it on.”

The question burned in his mind like a hot knife: what had she gotten herself into? But he didn’t ask, just went along in compliance. He’d done her so dirty, and he wanted to win her trust back. He couldn’t fit the makeshift “blindfold” all the way around his head, so he held it in place with his hands until she set down her box of soaps and came up behind him with something else, probably another restaurant napkin, tied it to the ends and secured it in the back. “Jesus Christ, Christyn.”

One of her hands closed around his wrist and she led him in the dark across the parking lot. He heard a car door open, and she pushed him gently into the seat. He felt a significant weight settle into his lap which he guessed was the box of soaps, and then the door closed. “Don’t drop that, now.”

“Look at that, she still got jokes.”

She let herself into the driver’s seat, yanked his seat belt across him, and keyed the ignition. It wasn’t comfortable, but there were worse things she could have done.

The radio was tuned to the rock mix station she used to play in her old car. The first bump they hit jarred him. Either she’d become a more reckless driver, or--as he suspected was the case--this new car had almost no suspension. “Are you still at the mansion in Richmond?” he asked her after a while.

“Yes.” Just one word, so succinct. The Christyn he remembered liked to talk a lot, but he supposed things had changed.

“Is Alex still there?”

“Yes.”

“And Auralee?”

“Yes.”

They drove for a while in silence, before Christyn said, “Hey, look, Auralee is on the radio!” Indeed, he recognized their friend’s voice as she belted out a song which, if he had to take a guess, was titled, Love Will Mess You Up. “The original lyric goes, ‘my love will F you up,’ but I guess they had to edit it for the radio. She and Alex are actually touring now.”

“You been lonely at the house?”

“Nah, it’s never quiet at the Server House.”

“The what?”

A guitar solo on the radio reverberated through the car. They hit another bump, then another. Then, the road was flat for a while. Damian began to relax. Blindfolded head laid back against the headrest of the seat, he asked, “What’s the Server House?”

She didn’t answer.

After a while, he said, “I never stopped loving you.”

She took two sharp turns in a row. “I figured; nothing says ‘I love you’ like a charge of obstruction of justice.”

He gasped. “They charged you? You didn’t have to do any hard time, did you?”

“Nah. Zeke got me off. And without you, if you hadn’t said what you said, I’d have been charged with a lot worse.”

“That’s right, Zeke’s a whole lawyer now, isn’t he?”

She didn’t answer, just drove for a while. “I’ve always loved you,” she finally said. Her words melted him inside, gave him an aching satisfaction, like sitting down to a warm meal after being starved, but he heard a ‘but’ in her tone of voice.

“You want to know why I’ve never said it back? Because I was always holding my breath, waiting for the next disaster to strike. I guess I was scared to bear my heart, in case we got ripped apart again, and get left in a vulnerable position. We always seemed to be two of those good people that terrible things happened to. But I’ve solved that problem now. I realized that in order to make it in the world, I had to become one of the terrible things.”

“What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer. “You know, if you want some real food, one of my roommates made chicken sandwiches and macaroni salad for lunch today, and there was a ton of leftovers when I left for work. There’s probably still some in the fridge.”

“So, you want to pick up where we left off, then?” he said. Then, “Exactly how many roommates you got, now?”

The car abruptly stopped. Damian felt the door open, felt the soap box lifted off his legs, felt Christyn take him around the arm and lead him out of the car, down this way, down that way, then straight down a path. “Hey, it’s me,” she said.

“I know--”

“Shh, I’m on the phone,” she hissed, and he bit his tongue. “Yeah, I’m back. I have company, but he’s a friend, there’s no reason to be alarmed. Tell everybody, hold your fire.”

“Hold your...what?” Damian murmured.

Christyn ripped off the blindfold then, and Damian’s jaw dropped. Before him was the mansion Christyn had inherited from her uncle, except it was a lot different than he remembered it. Where there once stood a towering beacon of affluence in an otherwise empty field undisturbed by neighbors for miles in every direction, there now was a noisy, lit up behemoth of activity and sound and chaos. The once pristine white brick facade was vandalized, the grass was unkempt, and the lawn was strewn with all manner of cups, bottles, and evidence of depravity. From a couple windows, he could make out fires burning. In the not-so-distant distance, he thought he heard the dull thud of a human-sized weight hitting the ground. The outlines of people came and went, to and from the house, to the yard, to beyond--to the mailboxes, maybe? To the dumpsters? He couldn’t say for certain how many went in and how many went out. “Welcome to the Server House,” said Christyn.

“Are those...all servers?”

“A few cooks, a few bussers and barbacks, but mostly front of house staff.”

“How many people are there?”

“Ninety, including me. Ninety-one, now, if you want a cot and a roof."

From somewhere nearby, a scream reached his ears.

The front door opened, and though he was apprehensive, he squared his shoulders, not wanting to give away his fear. “You said you got chicken sandwiches?


	2. ONE

Part 1. The Bond

**ONE**

The day Damian first met Christyn Brandywine had been one of the worst days of his recent life.

The sun wasn’t even up yet when he was fired from his night job as a security guard at a gated apartment community. He’d come to work a little high and committed a split-second error at the guardhouse control panel which, had it been committed a hair earlier, would have been harmless, but as things were, had resulted in him dropping a wrought-iron gate on the hood of some lady’s very expensive Audi. Although the old lady had decided not to press charges, Damian was promptly terminated.

He still had his day job seating tables at a restaurant, but as he made his was across town for that, he must have been swerving, because he was pulled over two blocks away from the restaurant, and in his strung-out state, he didn’t think twice about snapping at the police officer, “What the fuck is your problem, man?”

And maybe if he’d just been a little more polite, the officer wouldn’t have noticed the handgun that had slipped out from underneath his passenger’s seat, or would have at least forgotten to ask for the license and registration for the firearm that Damian couldn’t provide.

But, as things stood, he was walking into the Capital Cafe late, with a shiny new ticket and a court summons to add to the pile back at home--he already had a whole manila folder full of tickets and warrants stacked thicker than his middle finger. Hell, he would’ve taken the ticket in stride if the officer hadn’t, as a final devastating blow to his manhood, confiscated his gun.

At least the manager wasn’t standing upfront when Damian came in. Probably in the office. So he had a good three minutes before he was written up for tardiness--not even a month into this job and he already knew the drill, he’d been late enough times. Maybe he had five minutes if he was lucky. And hey, it looked like there was some new eye candy in the joint.

The new girl was blonde, pretty, and damn, had a nice, robust set of curves, at least as far as he could tell under her stiff server button-down and slacks. She was older than he was, and despite it being her first day on the job, she was already meticulously cleaning tables in her section with a sense of purpose and a sort of elegance to her, like she’d done this before at some other restaurant, or a few other restaurants, until she’d mastered the art.

It was her lips that really drew him in. They were plump and pouty and painted this deep burgundy red that made him stare, and despite the complete and total bullshittery of his morning so far, he couldn’t help but think about those lips closing warm and wet around his--

“MENDEZ! MY OFFICE! NOW!”

Shit. When the general manager reduced him to a last name only, he knew he was in trouble.

Unable to feel his feet, he shuffled his way into the office in the back of the small restaurant.

Chance was a little dude. Skinny, slouchy, baggy shirt, big glasses. But fuck, could he yell.

“Do you know how many days you’ve been late this week? Don’t answer that for me. EVERY. DAMN. DAY.”

Damian trembled in his spot, standing in the one floor tile his feet took up when he held them as close as they would go. “I’m sorry…”

“WHAT WAS IT THIS TIME?”

“I...I got pulled over.”

“Same excuse, different day. Speeding again?”

“...I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Don’t you? Because the next time this happens, you’ll be out on your ass unless you can give me a very good reason not to fire you.”

Damian swallowed. He knew what being let go would mean for him; he had already lost one job that day and without this one, he would definitely be evicted from the apartment he could barely afford as it was. If he couldn’t convince anybody to take him in, he’d have to move in with his sister on the north side of Houston, and he’d rather be shot point-blank between the eyes than go back to living with her, especially after the way he’d left things off with her, vowing in front of a whole courtroom that he’d never see her again...

But the one thing he wanted even less right now was to beg the man in front of him for anything, even his livelihood. So he forced his expression into a stone mask and said, “If it happens again, I won’t bother showing up.”

“You’d better not,” said Chance. He was smirking, seeming satisfied that he had gotten his point across...loser. He probably got off on bossing his employees around because he was too pathetic to just get laid.

With Chance’s latest lecture over, Damian stood and made to take his place at the host desk up front, only, when he opened the door, he almost hit the new girl right in the face with it. “Sorry!” he said, but she didn’t seem upset.

“No worries, that was completely on me! I should have knocked,” she said. Then, “You must be the AM host. Damian, right?”

He blinked. “How’d you know?”

“It’s on the schedule,” she said, holding up a copy of the schedule between two fingers for him to see.

Oh. Duh. If he hadn’t thought of that, it was because he had a lot on his mind, and it didn’t help that she was even hotter up close. The top of her head only came up to about his chin, and the height difference gave him a perfect view right down her shirt…

“Anyway, I didn’t know how long you’d be in there, so I took the liberty of wiping down and organizing your menus, calling to confirm all the resos, and I went ‘head and hit the front door with some Windex...I think all that’s left for you is to restock the candy bowl.”

He could feel his face turn red. “You didn’t have to do all that.” She probably thought he was completely incompetent.

If she did, though, she made no show of it. “No worries!” she said again. “Do you think I could get in there for a minute though? I need to talk to Chance. Chance! Hey, can I talk to you a minute about my schedule?”

With that, she disappeared into the office and let the door close behind her before Damian could even catch her name.

There were two servers on for the lunch shift, but no bartender, not on a Monday morning. Dave’s section was ready to be sat, as usual. Scott, on the other hand, had walked in even later than Damian had, and his booths were a mess, but Chance was somehow completely silent on that matter.

Oh, and here came Scott walking up to the host stand now. His hair was rumpled, a bit of a sauce stain crusted on his shirt from some previous shift, and he looked like he hadn’t slept all night. Guess he had fun. He glanced both ways before placing a crisp five dollar bill onto the stack of menus. “Hey man, I know I’m late,” he said, “but do you think you could do me a favor and make me first in the rotation?”

Now, Damian had accepted bribes from the servers before, but he knew he was in no position to break the rules after that stern talking-to he’d just received. But he didn’t want to lose face in front of his coworker by admitting he was actually scared of the boss. So he squared his shoulders, picked up the five and tossed it flippantly back at the waiter. “The fuck am I supposed to do with this, man? Five bucks? I piss that money. Raise the price and maybe we’ll talk.”

“Loser.” Scott took back his money and huffed past the host stand.

Damian thought that would be the end of it. But then, behind him, he heard the unmistakable smack of flesh connecting on flesh, and he turned around startled to see the new girl, her hand full of Scott’s fist just inches away from Damian’s head. “Dude, calm down,” she said, “we’ve got guests driving up.”

At last, Scott gave up and stalked off to his section. Damian couldn’t meet the new girl’s eyes. His own burned hot as he stared in shame at the ground between his feet. That was twice in one morning now that she’d stuck out her neck for him, and he had nothing to offer her in return. He didn’t even know her name. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me, but you don’t have to. I can take care of myself.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” she replied. “But as far as I’m concerned, the number one rule of this industry is, I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine. Too many people forget that. But what about you, what do you say?”

She reached out a hand and after a second, he took it. Her handshake was surprisingly strong for a girl. “I won’t forget,” he promised. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“It’s on the schedule, dear,” she said with a little laugh. She had a thick Southern accent, thicker than he’d ever heard in the city, except when a word had an O in it; then it sounded like there were two O’s, weird and maybe New York-y. Her shoes, while clean, were beat-up with wear. He turned around and glanced at the papers on his host stand--there, on the schedule, after Scott and Dave’s names, was hers: Brandywine, Christyn, with a little circled T next to it for ‘training'.

When he turned around again, she was gone.

***

It was a slow day at the Capital. After sitting his first table, a family of four who seemed to think it was squarely his fault that the restaurant was out of crayons, Damian waited over an hour until the next guests came in, this young couple who laughed too much and wasted five whole minutes debating whether they wanted a booth or a window table. After that, there wasn’t too much action.

He found little things to do to pass the time. He made a few phone calls in the back. When Chance wasn’t looking, he stole a pre-portioned bag of raw brussels sprouts out of the walk-in and stashed them in the drawer of the host-stand for easy snacking. He stared at the new girl’s ass for a couple minutes at a time, until at one point he lost track of her, only to jump at the sound of her voice as she came up right behind him.

“Man, today sucks, huh?”

After shaking off the initial unease of feeling sneaked up upon, he shrugged and replied, “It’s a chill day, I guess.”

“Yeah. Chill. If you don’t work for tips.”

“Yeah, I guess 7.25 ain’t great…”

“Try 2.13.”

He winced. “Is that even legal?”

“Welcome to Texas.”

“I was born here.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to the service industry, smartass.”

“Damn, well, I guess I caught a lucky break, then,” said Damian. “I actually applied here as a server first, but before I was even out of training, they, uh...promoted me to hosting.”

That last bit was a lie; he’d actually been demoted to hosting after the chef got mad at him for ringing in too many modifiers on his tickets. He’d only been trying to give the customers exactly what they wanted. But the gorgeous new girl didn’t need to know all that.

Just then, her eyes widened. “Wait...so if you started as a server, then you know the table numbers? You know where everything is in the POS?”

“I guess,” he shrugged, wondering where she was going with this.

“Great, then you can show me! Dave’s not teaching me Jack shit.”

He figured, after she had extended the olive branch this morning, it was the least he could do.

Christyn was quick on the uptake once Damian gave her the tour through the POS. She’d come in already armed with the knowledge of every ingredient in every menu item; she must have studied before she started. All he had to do was teach her how to ring everything up, and suddenly, she was running circles around Dave.

In her downtime, she stood with him at the host stand and helped him wipe down menus. Just to pass the time, he asked her questions, just little smalltalky questions, and she obliged.

Her last job had been another table waiting gig, but she’d been let go about a month ago. Between then and now, she’d been on holiday with a friend in Galveston. She stayed on the west side, between the Galleria and the beltway. Although she had a distinctly Eastern look to her, (Damian would have guessed Russian or maybe Asian), when he asked her where she was from, she said Beaumont, about two hours away. She didn’t know her parents well; her dad had died when she was young, and for some reason, which she glossed over and he forgot to press for details about, she was raised by his sister, her aunt.

And yes, she had a boyfriend.


	3. TWO

**TWO**

Dave left well before shift change to go to his other job at an Italian restaurant down by the Galleria. Scott was on a double at the Capital, and wanted to leave for his lunch break, Damian cut out at his scheduled out-time, and the PM hostess, Lucinda, was running late, so for a while, it was just Christyn and the manager left on the floor.

With no one manning the door, she decided to play hostess for the time being, and took a stack of napkins and silverware with her to the host stand to roll for good measure. Her stack of silver was almost fifteen high when Chance came and approached her.

“No one’s here. You can take a break, you know. Get something to eat, on us.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather work. I’ve been on vacation for far too long.”

“Well, I guess I can’t force you to sit down, but everyone needs to eat. At least let me buy you an appetizer.”

“Thanks, but I’m too nervous to eat.”

“Nervous? About what?”

She shrugged. “First day jitters, I guess,” she said, but she was lying.

She’d overheard Chance giving Damian an ultimatum in his office that morning, and as nice as Chance was treating her now, she couldn’t help but wonder how much (or how little) it would take to get fired from this place, or at least demoted like Damian. Then again, maybe a demotion would be a blessing in disguise for her. Truth be told, she’d been nervous since the moment she looked at her training schedule: right off the bat, Chance had her training on the floor every morning this week...and behind the bar at night. She’d been waiting at his office door to ask him if there’d been some mistake; she had specifically applied for a server position and there hadn’t been any discussion of bartending when he interviewed her, but he’d assured her that there was no mistake, he’d spoken to one of her previous employers on the phone who had sung praises of her speed in the service well and aptitude for mixology, and he was sure she would do the establishment proud. She’d only been a barback once before, in her eight-year run in foodservice, so she knew exactly which former workplace had sung her those praises, and she wished they hadn’t.

***

The bar manager’s name was Javier Winrock. He pulled up in front of the restaurant in a stoplight-red Charger with a vanity plate, decked out in a sleek vest and skinny black tie even though the Capital dress code called for neither--Christyn would know; she’d read over the employee handbook five times. He had his hair parted on the side, slick with gel, and he kept on his very expensive looking sunglasses even as he walked indoors. “So you must be the new blood,” he said with a smirk, approaching Christyn where she stood at the host stand. He towered at least a foot over her, and his intimidating, broad-shouldered stature did nothing to calm her nerves.

But despite first impressions, he turned out to be quite a better trainer than Dave, who had left Christyn in the dust in the interest of making his own quick buck. Javier, on the other hand, walked her through every bar seat, every regular’s preferences, and every cocktail recipe--although as the night wore on, it became apparent that she already knew them all.

She watched his expression shift from cool to incredulous as she put together perfect margaritas for the oncoming dinner rush; blue hooters, white russians, kamikaze shots, lemon drop martinis with perfectly sugared rims, seabreezes, birthday cake shots, and one whiskey sour made the classic way with an egg white. Everything she set out was perfectly, almost obsessively mixed, even without a jigger. “Damn,” he said a few minutes before close, “Julian told me you were spirited, but he never told me you were this good.”

Her heart jumped into her throat. “You know Julian Castro?”

Julian Castro being the bar manager from her previous job at Old Town BBQ. Christyn hadn’t included that job on her resume, and with good reason.

“He’s alright, as a person,” said Javier, “but as a bartender…”

“His drinks are too sweet, too weak, have too many ingredients, and are downright irreplicable!” Christyn finished for him. She gasped at her own audacity--within the course of one shift, Javier had made her feel comfortable, but once she’d blurted it out, she worried she had gotten too comfortable.

Until Javier went on, “Oh, abso-fucking-lutely.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Still, you can’t go saying that stuff out loud, not when you work there. Is that how you got fired for insubordination?”

And just like that, she was on edge again.

“It’s alright, you can tell me. I’m the cool manager.”

Well, shit. She knew everyone in this industry liked to talk, but she thought it was going to take a little longer for tales of her notoriety to hit her brand new workplace. She laughed nervously. “Actually, it was the GM I blew up on one day.”

There’d been some money missing from her check; from some of the busboys’ checks, too, and in front of a whole dining room of guests, she’d said to his face that he was either having his books cooked, or just plain going senile. Then she’d thrown a 40-pound dinner tray right to the floor, and she hadn’t been aiming for his foot, but that’s where it landed. She was banned from the building now, and it was a miracle they hadn’t pressed charges.

Javier blinked. “Well, damn, girl.”

“In my defense,” she said, “I was spiraling with the delirium tremens.”

She watched Javier’s face change as it all started to make sense to him, how she knew every drink recipe because she spent entirely too many hours out of each day thinking about alcohol, the reason why she hadn’t applied to work behind the bar.

Out on the floor, it was easier to forget about temptation, even with a cocktail on her tray, but behind the counter, she literally had to work with the enemy at her back, and it was a constant reminder of how easy it would be to slip. She wouldn’t dare take shots behind the bar, not with the cameras on her, but she could always ring up a shot as if it was for a customer, take it into the walk-in, down it there, and pay for it in cash. 

But ‘could' didn’t mean ‘ought to;’ she was learning that.

Still, all that liquor was so close, and knowing it was within reach made her breath catch and her insides cramp and turn. Her hands shook worse and worse with each new bar ticket she pulled off the printer, and she wasn’t sure if it was a physical symptom of ongoing withdrawals or a product of anxiety.

“So are you, like, going to AA?” asked Javier after a while.

“God, no,” said Christyn as she put the lid on a shaker for table 23’s third lemon drop martini. “If I tried to quit cold turkey, it would probably kill me. But I’m down to four or five shots a night from probably twenty all day.” 

He started laughing. Why was he laughing?

“Only twenty?”

Oh.

“Well, we’re about to have last call. You want a shot to take the edge off before sidework, little alkie?”

In that moment, she felt like she could have bitten her own tongue off.

“That’s alright. I kind of made this rule for myself, that anymore, I can’t drink until I get off of work. I’ll...I’ll settle for a smoke break, though, if I’m allowed."

“Suit yourself,” he said, poured himself a shot of house rum, and downed it. “You know where the back door is, right?”

***

Home was a derelict little apartment on Westheimer at the end of a three-cigarette drive from the restaurant, wedged between a convenience store and a 24-hour supermarket. It was small, and it was a mess. Dishes undone, laundry everywhere, lights flickering like it was a horror movie. The whole place smelled of cigarettes, but she smoked so much she barely noticed how it had long since seeped into the walls and carpet. The power went out frequently, the hot water even more frequently, and the landlord never did a thing about it. Christyn figured, if he wasn’t going to put any effort into the place, then neither should she.

The one improvement she had made over the past few weeks was disposing of the piles and piles of empty vodka handles she used to allow to gather up on the floor for months at a time. That was another rule she’d put in place for herself in her ongoing effort to clean up her act. The presence of the bottles made her constant drinking feel normalized, so they had to go.

So far, she had three rules: no more empty bottles in the house, no drinking until after work, and no watching the clock waiting for work to be over. So far, she was doing good, but she had only been back at work for a day. She knew better than to count her chickens.

When she got up the stairs and stuck her key in the lock, she found the door already unlocked. Her whole body tensed and she threw open the door, threw on the light, unsure of what to expect…

“Good evening, kitten.”

A sigh of relief pushed its way up her throat. Thank God it was only Jesse.

He was standing against the wall a few feet out from under the living room recess light, and the sight of him there sent a warm shiver down her spine. He was easily the most strikingly attractive man she’d ever met, despite the little matter of their age difference. Forty-one to her twenty-four, he was clocking in at maybe 280, with a kind face, but this intelligent gaze in his sky blue eyes that could be downright compelling when he looked at her in a certain way. He wore a smartly trimmed beard and rimless rectangular spectacles and his brown hair was receding a little, but other than that he looked great for his age. When she first saw him, he reminded her a lot of her first love (who’d been 36, then, to her 16).

And she’d told Damian at the restaurant that she had a boyfriend, but Jesse’s preferred title was “Master.”

How they’d met was this: Jesse had come in during the pre-breakdown lull while Christyn was waitressing at Common Table, a small but busy bistro and wine bar in Midtown about a year ago. It was raining and his car battery was stalled. He asked her for a jump and she was instantly taken with him, so she offered to buy him a meal while they waited out the rain. He stayed for dinner, but, being a man of considerable means as the head of A/V for PR at a successful oil company, paid in full and gave her a sizeable tip. All through dinner, they charmed each other with coy little compliments and cheesy puns shot back and forth. Once the rain had stopped, she gave him that jump, and convinced him to follow her home. The rest of the night was a blur, she’d probably gotten drunk at some point, but that wasn’t the last she would see of him, and in a few months’ time he confessed that he wanted her for his submissive.

Reflexively, she reached into her purse, pulled out her collar, and fastened it around her neck. It was a pretty little thing, a black leather band with baby blue lace trim, the same blue as her worn kitchen towels and his icy sharp eyes, and a dangling silver bell in the middle. He said when he picked it out for her that it suited her. She had to agree. “Good evening, Master,” she said, letting the door fall shut behind her. She took off her server apron but not her shoes; after years of neglecting the apartment, she didn’t trust the carpet. “I didn’t know I’d be seeing you tonight. I look like a mess, it was a long day at work--”

All he had to do was raise a finger to silence her. “I don’t care how you look, kitten. I couldn’t wait to see you. I almost drove up to the restaurant, but then I thought, wouldn’t it be so much nicer if we were alone? And then I remembered you had left me a key to your apartment.”

“Well, it’s certainly a wonderful surprise to see you, Master,” she said, beaming. “How was your day?”

“Nevermind that. I want to hear about your day.”

Quick to take a command, Christyn started telling him all about her first day at work, while he walked around behind her and started working the knots out of her shoulders. It felt amazing, and she didn’t even notice at first that he had started to lead her, in little steps, into the bedroom, but once she realized where they were, excitement started to build up in her core.

“...And they had me training behind the bar tonight, and the bar manager even tried to get me to drink on the clock with him, but I resisted, Master. I’m not that person anymore.”

“I’d expect nothing less from my good girl,” he said.

And in that moment, she connected the dots.

They’d had this conversation a long time ago where he’d asked her if he could use hypnosis and subtle brainwashing techniques on her to make her into his perfect fantasy slave girl. She must have said yes, because months later, she was happier than she’d ever been. (Truth be told, she didn’t remember the end of that conversation; she must have been drinking that day. She used to be such a disgusting drunk…)

Right after she’d lost her job at Old Town, she remembered sitting in her car in the parking lot crying, knowing if she’d just had a couple of shots between shifts, she would have been mellow enough to avoid that whole fiasco in the dining room, wondering why she’d chosen that month to cut back on liquor, why she’d chosen to torture herself, why she was so adamant not to go back to her old ways when the new ways meant that her hands were shaking all the time and the first sign of conflict made her want to punch a wall and vomit…

She knew why now.

“Master,” she probed tentatively, “may your adoring slave girl ask you a question?”

“Speak, my pet.”

“Have you brainwashed me to curb my drinking?”

He chuckled. Let her shoulders go and walked around to face her again. God, he had the most charming smirk, with those deceptively boyish round cheeks and eyes full of mischief. “Of course I did, my pet. You have quite the reckless streak--that’s what brought you to me in the first place. But I can’t allow you to be too reckless, especially with your own health. After all, you’re no good to me dead of liver failure.”

She had one more question for him: How? But before she could ask once more for permission to speak, he leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Such a smart little slave deserves a reward,” and her body tensed with anticipation. “Now, slave girl, I’m going to strike you in the face, harder than you’ve probably ever been struck. It will hurt well into tomorrow--possibly well into next week--and I intend to leave a mark. And the moment the blow lands, you will come, harder than you ever have before. Do. You. Understand. Me?”

“Yes, Master.” She didn’t bother to brace herself. This was established between them; hurting her brought him pleasure, so it brought her pleasure, and she knew he would never do anything truly bad to her.

He stepped back, drew back, and backhanded her with full force. The impact turned her around 180 degrees and she fell forward, catching herself against the mattress. The blow hurt enough to put tears in her eyes and she could feel the sting where his class ring slit her left cheek open. It wasn’t the hardest she’d ever been hit, though, and although she did become achingly wet, she did not orgasm on the spot. Nevertheless, she responded automatically, “Thank you, Master, may I have another?”

“Oh no, slave. Your Master has something much better in store for his good girl tonight,” he said, and nudged her legs apart with one steel-toe-booted foot.


	4. THREE

**THREE**

On Christyn’s second day at the Capital, Damian was early, for once.

He wasn’t in the mood to deal with another one of Chance’s tongue-lashings. Also, he was eager to see Christyn again. Yeah, she had a boyfriend, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t look forward to seeing her. She was fun to look at. Also, he was full of boundless energy, completely wired after taking a few tabs his neighbor had sold him at the low, low rate of two for a dollar, which probably meant they were cut with all kinds of God-knows-what, but shit, man, two for a dollar! That was practically free!

He was happily buzzing around the dining room, adjusting settings on tables, wiping down chair legs, when she pulled up out front in her little green two-door 2007 Fiat. She walked in with her eyes downcast, staring at her keys in her hands and muttering, “That’s weird...that’s so weird…”

He grabbed the door so it wouldn’t fall on her and asked, “What’s weird?”

“I still have both my house keys…” she said, then shook her head as if she was snapping out of a trance and finally looked up at him. “I mean, it’s nothing. How are you?” He tried to answer her question, but he was too distracted by the fresh-looking cut on her face. As if reading his mind, she thumbed the scratch and explained, “I have cats.”

“You need to get them hoes trained.”

“They’re cats.”

Just then, Chance came out of the office. “Christyn, good, you’re early! I wanted to let you know that Javier said you’d done a fantastic job behind the bar last night. So good, in fact, that we’ve talked it over and decided you’re ready to exit training. Now, we’ve been running without an A.M. bartender; servers have been fixing their own drinks, but for the sake of streamlining, I’d like you to jump back there starting today. You’ll have the bar-top plus tables 1 thru 6. Sound good?”

“You got it, Captain,” said Christyn, nodding up and down quickly. Damian thought he heard her voice shake a little, but he might have been imagining it--he was so fucked up, he could practically hear colors right now.

And he could hardly control his mouth. “Hey Boss,” he blurted once Chance had finished, “I was early, too! What do I get?”

“Not fired...this time,” said Chance, deadpan.

Later on, once Christyn had finished setting up the bar, she approached Chance and said, “Don’t you think you’re a little hard on Damian?”

Chance just rolled his eyes. “If anything, I’m too soft on him. Come on, you know as well as I do that he came into work today tweaking,” he said, as if Damian wasn’t standing at the host desk five feet away and well within earshot.

“But he’s here, isn’t he? We open in five, and I don’t see either of those servers anywhere. We don’t know what goes on in that little dude’s life, but if you ask me, I think he’s trying his best.”

That really made Damian feel better, until Chance had to go burst his bubble, and he didn’t imagine what he said sat well with Christyn, either: “Well, maybe once you get a promotion to management, someone will ask you. For now, why don’t you put those drink-making skills to good use and fix me a cappuccino?”

Damian would have decked him for that. He wished he’d been quick enough to do it, but he was in too much shock. Up until that point, he’d only seen Chance act civil to Christyn, treat her like a new favorite, really. But he’d turned on her fast the moment she decided to speak her mind.

Somehow Christyn remained cool and collected, just said, “Yes, Boss,” and scuttled off.

With two minutes until open, Scott and Sophie pulled up in the same car, came in through the front door, and clocked in one after the other, catching no flack from Chance. “So that’s the new girl?” said Sophie, and Damian resolved to keep an eye on Christyn if she tried anything.

Sophie was a pretty girl, another curvaceous female with dark eyes and pouty lips, which Damian loved, but her personality was straight-up garbage. The first day he met her, he’d tried to ask her out on a date, to which she’d replied in front of his seated guests that he was probably too broke. He’d tried to remind her that they worked at the same fucking job, but that didn’t change her mind, and Chance wrote him up that day for swearing in front of customers.

Soon the patrons started rolling in. Damian sat the first group at table 5, and then a rush of 1- and 2-tops came in who all wanted bar seats. It became clear quite soon that not everybody was happy about Christyn’s recent promotion.

And just like for everything else in this restaurant, Damian was the first one to catch the blame.

Sophie picked up a stack of menus from the end of the bar, stormed up to the host stand, and threw them at Damian--he caught one, but fumbled for the others while she yelled, “You can’t just sit everyone in the bar! Do you know what a rotation is? Or are you just that stupid?”

“I didn’t put them there, and don’t yell at me! It’s open seating at the bar, I can’t control what people do!”

Behind her, Christyn stepped out from behind the bar and came to his rescue once more. “Hey, you don’t need to throw those at him, I was gonna give ‘em back!” As she was helping him collect the menus, Chance came to the front to investigate the commotion.

“Is there a problem, guys?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” snapped Sophie, “since when on a Tuesday morning does one server get the bar all to herself? Oh, I’m sorry, A.M. bartender.”

“Sophie, you can barely pour a vodka soda,” said Chance. “Service will run quicker if we have someone behind the bar who knows what she’s doing.”

Just as a party of eight walked in, Sophie said, “I heard it from Javier that the only reason she knows her way around the bar is she’s an alcoholic,” and for the second time that day, Christyn let someone get away with saying something that Damian would have hit them for.

She just smiled at the big group and said, “Hi, welcome to the Capital Cafe. Right this way and we’ll put some tables together for you, and your server Sophie will be right with you.”

***

Christyn was calm, on the surface, but only because she’d worked in restaurants for long enough to be used to how they worked. It was sad how predictable of Javier it was to praise her to her face and then gossip about her behind her back.

When the lunch rush ended, Christyn set about looking for sidework to do and was polishing a rack of glasses when Damian approached the bar. “Are you okay?” he asked. She just nodded. “Why didn’t you say anything to Sophie?”

“Because it’s true.” He stared at her in shock. “I told Javier last night in confidence.”

“Confidence?”

“It means I didn’t think he’d spread it around.”

“Need me to beat his ass for you?”

“No,” she said, “I don’t want to be the cause of drama. I like this job. Well...I like the A.M. host. He’s a nice dude. Definitely my favorite coworker so far. I wouldn’t want either of us to get in trouble.” She smiled at him, and he smiled back. He had such a kind smile, with big, brown eyes that held an innocence you only saw in young folks who hadn’t worked in the industry long. She didn’t make a habit of looking at other men, seeing as she had one, but he was a cute little guy, if she thought about it, with a round, cherubic face despite an otherwise thin frame and thick, dark hair that curled at the ends in a mostly uniform fashion, except for an especially stubborn cowlick right in the back that he obviously tried very hard to tame with gel, to no avail. His skin was a creamy medium brown that brought out the bluer undertones in the tasteful blue-gray button-down he’d decided to wear.

She polished three more glasses in silence. Then, he said, “I can’t believe you’re an alcoholic. You don’t look like one.”

“Look again.” She put down the glass she was polishing and held her hand out in front of him so he could see it shake. Last night after Jesse left, she’d downed four shots before going to bed, but that had been hours and hours ago, and the withdrawals were starting to take hold once more.

That’s when he took the rag from her and started polishing glasses. “Here, that looks like it’s hurting your hand. I’ll do the rest of the cups for you, and maybe you can wipe the menus for me?”

She wiped the menus, then she washed the windows, then she sat down at the bar with a stack of linen napkins and a bunch of silverware and started rolling them up for settings. Damian didn’t say anything to her, but he didn’t have to. Just having him close by was a comfort while she went through New Girl Hell at this restaurant.

And hey, she thought, at least she wouldn’t be the new girl forever. Eventually, the others would leave her alone. Maybe once the next new waiter got hired on and became the latest threat to everybody else’s hours and section.

“Hey! New girl!” Sophie walked up and threw more silverware into Christyn’s pile. “Why don’t you roll my share, too? That way you can get some practice in.”

As she walked away, Christyn just kept rolling and started to laugh. Damian stared at her in disbelief. “Why are you laughing? I would have cut that bitch’s tires already if I was you!”

She didn’t say anything. The next time Sophie came around, the restaurant was empty except for staff and Christyn had a stack of rolls 35 high. “Not bad, for your first week, New Girl,” said Sophie sardonically.

“Yeah, I guess I’m alright at the silverware thing,” said Christyn, and she picked up one of her roll-ups and chucked it as hard as she could against the opposite wall. It bounced off right between two booth benches and landed on the table, a little loosened up but otherwise intact. “But then again, this ain’t my first rodeo…”

***

Thursday nights were always date night; Jesse was very adamant about that. If Christyn ended up scheduled to work that night, she had a standing order to invent some emergency and get out of her shift. Luckily, Chance honored her request to have Thursdays off, so things didn’t have to come to that.

Jesse picked an all-day breakfast diner equidistant from their jobs, and Christyn arrived early, waiting dutifully for him outside. When he arrived, she immediately started gushing about her first week at her new job. All the way to the table, she rattled on about how all the customers loved her drinks, how somebody had said in the middle of the rush to her that her boss needed to hire more people like her, and how she made the tightest silverware rolls in the whole workplace. She told him about the problems she was having with a couple of her coworkers, too: about Tuesday’s spats with Sophie, and how on Wednesday, Dave had happened upon her POS when she forgot to log out and sabotaged a whole table’s order, trying to pin the mistake on her. But Damian had caught him in the act and demanded that the manager look over the camera footage--she didn’t know what she’d do without that guy. He was always right behind her, like a protective brother or a loyal little dog, and so far, that’s what she loved most about the Capital.

She paused briefly to apologize for her rambling on and on, and to order for the both of them--Jesse didn’t like talking to “the help” when he was out. He didn’t hold the service industry in very high regard, and often told Christyn that she was too good to be waiting tables. He intended to eventually convince her to quit working altogether, but she wasn’t ready to succumb to that particular request, so he held off on that little bit of her in-progress brainwashing for now, for which she was grateful. She’d been working to support herself ever since she got kicked out of her aunt’s house eight years ago, and she didn’t know what she’d do with herself if she didn’t have a job to clock into. (Well, probably clean Jesse’s big fancy house in Spring all day, fix him dinner before he got home, flounce around in French maid costumes for his viewing pleasure--you know, submissive things. She knew eventually he would get her to agree to it, just like he’d gotten into her head about the alcohol thing, but right now she couldn’t imagine a life without waiting tables.)

“There’s no need to apologize, kitten,” he said. “I’m just glad to hear you’ve made a friend at work.”

The waiter dropped off his chicken and waffles and her veggie omelet, and she waited for him to leave before looking up at Jesse. “May I begin eating, Master?”

“Yes, kitten.”

She reached for the fork, but he plucked it out of her grasp with a smirk. “Now, now. Utensils are for people, not pets.”

Her face flushed. “Yes, Master,” she muttered, and began to pick at her omelet with her perfectly manicured, shaky little DT hands. The last time she’d eaten an omelet it had been with her hands, too, out of a bus tub at one of her old jobs.

***

On Friday morning, Damian came to work on drugs again, and after the bar rush died, he once again helped Christyn polish the glassware, only this time, he burst into periodic, unpredictable bouts of laughter. After this happened a few times, she asked, “What’s up?”

“Hey Christyn? Do you--?” He succumbed once again to uncontrollable laughter and was like that for a good three minutes before he finally calmed down. “Do you--? No, I can’t say it.”

“Well, now you have to say it, or else I’ll bug you for the rest of your life about what’s so funny.”

He had one last giggle fit before he was finally able to blurt out, “Do you like fat guys?”

She blinked and cocked her head. “What a strange question. I don’t dislike them. In fact, seeing as I wait tables, I’m rather grateful to them, as they tend to make the biggest contributions to my light bill. Why do you ask?”

“No! I meant, do you want to fuck fat guys?”

The back bar was lined with a mirror up to the ceiling behind the glass shelves, but she didn’t have to turn around and look in it to know her face was turning beet red. “I have a boyfriend, Damian, I don’t want to have sex with any guys other than him.”

“Okay, okay! Let me rephrase the question. If you were single, is being fat a thing that would attract you to different males?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I never really thought about it.” Sure, Jesse was a big guy, but it’s not like she kept a list in a drawer at home somewhere of criteria her potential partners had to meet. “Where is this coming from? Are you okay? What did you take?”

Ignoring her last question, he said, “I just noticed you’re always extra special nice to big fat guys at the bar. Like that guy that sat alone at table 2 this morning.”

Christyn rolled her eyes. “That was my uncle! He raised me from when I was a little girl, and he likes to come to whatever job I’m at and give me a big tip. When I was sixteen he bought me that car.” 

“...Oh.” He coughed a little to clear his throat. He looked almost disappointed. “But I been watching you work, you’re always really nice to the fat guys.”

“The hell you been watching me work for?” she snapped. “Don’t you have your own job to do? Why do you want me to have a fat fetish all of the sudden?”

Just then, Jesse walked into the restaurant. Christyn felt her heart race; she hadn’t been expecting him. He usually texted her ahead of time when he was planning to visit her at work…

Her phone. She’d left it charging at an outlet on the back bar, and she hadn’t checked it in a hot minute, she’d been so occupied talking to Damian.

He helped himself to a seat at the bar. She automatically poured him a cola, light on the ice the way she knew he liked it, and asked, “Can I get you a menu, Sir?”

It was Sir when she was at work, because that was a normal thing for a server to call somebody she was waiting on and it wouldn’t invite any questions about the whole BDSM thing from nosy coworkers.

“I actually took a peek at it online before I came. I’d like a double bacon bourbon burger, no side and no chipotle ranch, if you would?”

“Right away, Sir.”

His lunch was short-lived. Anymore, when he came into her workplace, she was not to speak until he spoke to her after the initial greeting she was obligated to give him by the standard steps of service, and he didn’t have anything to say to her today. She guessed it was one of his subtle tactics to get her to give up serving; if he made it an uncomfortable experience for her, she was bound to throw in the towel at some point, right?

She was beginning to understand how the game worked between them. He was smart. But she wasn’t ready to go yet.

Today was different from his usual visits. Once his meal came, instead of just eating it in stiff silence and only offering a stern look or a displeased gesture when she failed to anticipate a need of his (more cola, extra napkins, etc), he took a particular interest in watching Damian as he polished glasses and straightened little random things up behind the bar. After a while, he said, “Come here, son, what’s your name?”

“Me?”

“Who else?”

“Damian.”

“Is that so?” He pulled a crisp 20 dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to him across the bar counter. “Christyn has told me a lot about you. This is for looking out for her.”

“I...thanks. Are you her dad or something?”

Christyn giggled. “Damian, I thought I told you, my father is no longer with us. This is my boyfriend, Jesse Markham.”

Suddenly, Damian smiled as big as a party clown. “That is awesome! It’s so nice to meet you! Christyn’s the best, yeah, we’ve got each other’s back. Right, Christyn?”

She wasn’t sure exactly what had just transpired. Maybe Damian was having a second wind on whatever drugs he’d been taking. She listened in as the two men talked, but nothing that was said between them gave anything away. Mostly they just chatted about cars and women. Damian complimented Jesse’s sleek black Benz and pointed out his own gold BMW, which he’d gotten back when he worked a job that paid much better. He said Jesse was lucky to have a pretty girl like Christyn who was also a really nice person (Christyn blushed at that), and confessed that he’d had eyes on the other waitress who was working this morning, but she’d snubbed him in a rather cruel fashion, and Jesse looked at Sophie and conceded that she was quite good looking, but so was a monarch butterfly, and those were poisonous. All the while, that same dopey grin stayed plastered on Damian’s face, and she couldn’t figure out why. Jesse gave him twenty bucks. That was nice of him, but nothing to be so piss-your-pants happy about.

Then, after Jesse left, she saw Scott and Damian exchange words at the host stand, and Scott pull a stack of bills out of his wallet and hand it over. At first, she assumed it was a drug deal; the restaurant industry ran rampant with substance abuse, so she went back to doing her sidework. But she could feel Scott staring right at her, so she went up there to investigate.

“Where’s my tipout, huh?” she asked Scott. He just kept staring at her for a long time, until finally, he asked,

“Wait a minute. Were you in on this?”

“This being what, exactly?”

“...You didn’t tell him to bet me two hundred dollars that you have a fat fetish, knowing I was gonna think he was full of bullshit? Was that dude even your boyfriend, or is he getting a cut?”

A wave of anxiety washed over her. She felt like the part of her brain that housed everything she knew so far about Damian had come disembodied from the rest of her. “I’ve been here a week,” she murmured, “and you guys have already turned my sex life into a betting sport?”

The look on her face wiped the shit-eating grin right off of Damian’s. “Chris, I’m sorry...I didn’t know you’d be mad…”

“You’re my only friend here. I thought you had my back.”

“I do! Scott’s the one who’s been telling everyone you’re lying about having a boyfriend and you’re probably a lonely, antisocial cat lady!”

“Both of you, just leave me alone.” She turned on her heel and disappeared into the ladies’ restroom.

To her surprise, it was Sophie who came to her rescue, if it could be called that. She let herself in with a brusque step and said, “You’d better not be crying in here, New Girl.” She must have heard everything, the restaurant was pretty small.

“I’m not.” Christyn wasn’t, but her eyes were burning.

“But you were about to,” said Sophie. “Why are you letting them get to you? They’re just a couple stupid guys. They want to fuck everything they see, and when you won’t give it to them, they invent things that are wrong with you so it doesn’t have to be their fault.”

“Why are you talking to me?” asked Christyn. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t not like you, I hardly even know you! It’s just…” Sophie sighed. “Money’s been tight lately, and in the three years I’ve worked here, this is our slowest season yet. I really wanted to get trained on the bar to make a couple extra bucks, and when they put you back there...well, I lashed out. And I’m sorry. You’re actually a pretty good bartender. Not like those two idiots. Scott gets so many guest complaints, and as for Damian...I don’t even know what’s wrong with him, he’s just so fucking dumb. When he first started here, I told him one of our sidework duties was to rotate the air in the walk-in cooler, and he actually did it! With a big plastic trash bag! He still does it every Thursday before close, because that’s when it’s ‘his turn.’”

That gave Christyn a diabolical idea.

Outside, Damian knocked on the door. “Christyn, please talk to me. I’ll split the money with you if you want. I’ll do anything!”

Anything, huh?

Oh, he was going to regret that offer.

On Saturday, she was scheduled to work behind the bar for lunch and on the floor for dinner. Damian was a double, too, having picked up for Lucinda, so Christyn would have all day to exact her vendetta.

She waited until 9:00, when Chance dismissed the host and cut the floor down to the closer. Just as Damian was starting on wiping the menus, Christyn spilled a whole carafe of iced tea on the floor. Some of it got behind the bar, and a bit of it flowed underneath the double doors and into the kitchen. Christyn apologized profusely to Javier and the cooks, blaming it on her ‘shaky withdrawal hands,’ and, just as she had planned him to, Damian came over with a squeegee from the mop closet and set to work helping her. “Here, I got it. You’re not still mad at me, are you? Please don’t still be mad at me…"

“What, about the bet? I’m over it,” she said. She took the squeegee out of his hands. “Give me that, though, you’ll never get it clean like that. This needs a quick sharpen, I think Chance said last month we lent the squeegee sharpener to O’Brien’s Pub up the street. I’m just gonna go down there real quick. Can you finish my last table for me? My code for the POS is 2002.”

Now, Damian had been doing an atrocious job of cleaning the floor, but that had everything to do with the fact that he somehow didn’t seem to know he was supposed to push the liquid down into the drain behind the bar, and nothing to do with the supposed ‘dullness' of the squeegee, but she had introduced the concept of a ‘squeegee sharpener’ with such a straight face that he ate it right up.

Eager to get back into her good graces, he said, “You stay here, I’ll get it. You said you need a squeegee sharpener, right?”

He started to take out his car keys, and she added, “They don’t have parking there, so you’re going to have to walk. It’s only about five minutes up the road in the direction of the beltway. Again, it’s called O’Brien’s Pub.” She wrote that down for him on a scrap of receipt paper and sent him on his way.

She had just finished mopping up the floor herself when the phone rang up at the host stand. The caller ID said O’Brien’s, so she had an inkling of what this was about when she picked it up. “Thank you for calling the Capital Cafe, this is Christyn speaking, how may I help you?”

The bartender on the other end of the line was laughing. “Yeah, the guy you sent into my bar looking for a ‘squeegee sharpener,’ do you need him back anytime soon or can I have a little fun with him?”

“No, he’s cut. And he's been a bad boy. Fuck with him all you want.”

“Alright, great, I’m sending him to the Sapphire Lounge.”

This happened a couple more times. Christyn finished out her table and completed her sidework along with Damian’s, occasionally pausing to answer the phone and talk to a bartender who wanted to know what was the worst they were allowed to do to the guy. Soon Sophie, Scott, and Javier gathered around the host stand to listen in on what she was doing, and Christyn started putting each call on speaker so they could all laugh at her prank unfolding. At about half past nine, it began to rain, hard.

Five minutes before close, Damian came back, shivering and miserable and smelling like wet hair gel, with his clothes soaked to his skin. “Nobody had it,” he said, defeated. “What kind of neighborhood is this, with all these bars and only one squeegee sharpener that everybody borrows and then lends out to the next guy and no one gives back? And why are we all watching the phone?”

At that point, Christyn decided she might as well come clean, since it didn’t look like it was going to click: “There’s no such thing as a squeegee sharpener.”

His mouth formed a little o of shock. “You tricked me?”

“You’re not mad, are you? After all, we’re even now.”

On Sunday, Damian didn’t show up for work. By Monday, he was still missing. Chance filled in at the host stand for lunch. “Did Damian quit because of me?” she asked before opening. She had cooled down since the day she learned about the bet and she suddenly felt terrible. She’d only meant to mildly embarrass him, the way he’d done to her. She hoped she hadn’t seriously hurt his pride…

“What, because you ran him all over town looking for something that doesn’t exist? Nah, but dick move, though, and I don’t even like the guy. I wasn’t going to say anything, but apparently nobody else has any discretion around here, so I might as well tell you, if it’ll assuage your guilty conscience: he called the store yesterday morning to tell me he’s in jail.”


	5. FOUR

**FOUR**

What happened, according to Chance, was this: on Saturday night, the HPD received an anonymous tip about a reckless, possibly intoxicated driver in a car matching Damian’s car’s description a few blocks away from the restaurant. He was pulled over, and when the apprehending officer ran his ID, it came back with open warrants and a missed court date.

“It was only a matter of time,” Chance remarked, and if Christyn was bitter about his continued contempt for Damian even at his lowest of lows, she held her tongue. She had work to do.

The shifts at the Capital were hit or miss, mostly miss. Occasionally, they would be swamped, but more often than not, they were so slow Christyn could practically hear crickets. However, the events of the next few days soon made her grateful for the slow days.

First, Javier no-call no-showed one night, necessitating Christyn to stay for the double when she was supposed to have gotten off. That night, the restaurant got packed--too packed, in fact, for them to keep Christyn in the bar and Sophie on the floor. For a while, they were both all over the place, but Sophie struggled to try and help Christyn make drinks, until Christyn figured out that if she let Sophie greet all the tables and ring up orders, and came in behind to run food and bust out drinks on the well, service would run much more smoothly and efficiently. At the end of the night, they split all the tips down the middle and each walked with a respectable $300 and change, but boy, were they exhausted.

The next morning, Javier showed up to explain himself, only to find that Damian’s insistence on Chance checking the camera footage in defense of Christyn’s competence had come back to haunt the restaurant: while Dave had gotten off with a warning, Chance had become much more diligent in monitoring the behavior of his employees.

The argument in the office was so loud that Christyn could hear it from the host stand, where she started each day now by doing Damian’s sidework in his absence.

“...Trusted you, I vouched for you, and here you are drinking the whole damn inventory under my nose while the owners come after my blood about why so much liquor is missing from sales!”

“Fuck you, man! I’m the reason this trash restaurant even has what business it has! People come to see me!”

“Well then, they can go see your drunk ass somewhere else, because you’re no longer welcome in my building! And you have the nerve to spread rumors about Christyn, well, I tell you what, at least she’s trying her best!”

After Javier was dismissed, Chance didn’t speak to anyone for hours, holed up in the office on his computer. Christyn wondered if now would be a good time to suggest having Sophie finally trained for the bar, but Sophie never showed up for work. As it would turn out, Chance saw her on camera shorting the register the night Christyn worked the line and the well, and when he texted her to confront her about it, she disappeared off the face of the planet.

The next morning, Chance pulled Christyn into his office. “I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he began, “and given your personal battles with alcoholism right now, I completely understand if you don’t want to take me up on this offer. But I need a bar manager, and after what’s transpired with half my staff, I can’t trust anyone right now, and rather than bring in somebody I don’t know, I’d much rather give the position to the one remaining employee I have who hasn’t done any delinquent shit on tape. So, what do you say?”

“I’ll do it,” said Christyn at once, “on one condition.”

“I can’t fire Dave.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to.” Sure, he had spent every shift Christyn was forced to work with him sharking her tables, gossiping to his regulars that she was ‘slow' and ‘sloppy' and ‘didn't know how to serve,’ and generally fucking with her money. But every time, she was just too exhausted to do anything about it, and besides, with the restaurant running with such a lean staff, she knew she’d get plenty of hours without him and she wasn’t worried about her pocketbook. She had some money tucked away in savings, too.

No, there was something else she wanted from Chance, and she knew she had leverage enough to get it right now. He couldn’t afford to lose her.

“When Damian gets out of jail,” she said, “I want you to give him his job back.”

Chance stared at her, deadpan. “Why do you like him so much?”

“Why do you not?”

Chance sighed. Stood. Began to pace his office wall to wall. “Tell you the truth, when I was his age, I was a lot like him. Directionless and reckless, and probably by volume more drugs than plasma. When I was nineteen, a case worker told me if I kept on down that path, I wouldn't see twenty. Now, I managed to snap out of it. I’m twenty-three now, and this guy? He’s not even trying.”

“Say that again,” said Christyn, “and watch me walk out that front door.”

***

“And then I threatened to quit, and the look on his face, that’s when I knew I had him in the bag.”

“Look at you, being assertive!”

It was Christyn, Auralee, and Carolaine cruising down Bellaire Blvd en route to the nearest Comerica Bank branch, Auralee being Christyn’s friend and former manager from the only previous workplace at which she’d worked behind a bar, Carolaine being the name Christyn had given to her two-door Fiat. “Now, if you could only assert yourself like that on the road. Seriously, Chrissy, you drive like my dead grandma.”

“Hey, one of us has to be the cautious driver, and it sure as hell ain’t your post-op ass.”

Auralee needed a ride to the bank because her personal valet had the day off and she needed to withdraw $3000 cash to buy a secondhand car from her neighbor after wrecking her Oldsmobile. See, a while back, her family had pressured her into bariatric surgery. Anymore, she was about a third of her original size, but she still drank like she was a three-hundred-and-someodd pound girl with a fully intact digestive tract, which rendered her drunk-drunk and made her liable to do stupid things, like leave bars in her own car and crash head-on into brick walls.

Auralee couldn’t go to a dealership because her license was suspended. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sit there on your moralistic high horse, but I’m gonna be pissed at you when the bank is closed by the time we get there.”

Christyn took a cigarette out and lit up at a stoplight; Auralee bummed one without asking and said, “Anyway, sounds like you’re really smitten with this Damian guy. Good for you, I hope he gets out of the lockup soon. I never liked Jesse for you.”

Christyn choked on her smoke. “Excuse me! Jesse and I are very much in love! Damian is just a friend from work.”

“For whom you’ve just stuck out your neck.”

“Over a table waiting gig. There are a million restaurants in the city that’d be lucky to have me.”

“Look, all I’m saying is, if you and Jesse are so in love, how come you left him alone and let me drag you to Galveston for a month?”

On their way into Galveston, Auralee had been drifting all over the freeway, making the whole car rattle as she rode the tires against the reflectors built into the road, eyes on her phone screen as she changed playlists and checked her social media. On their way out, she’d run straight through a red light, gotten mortally offended when someone almost T-boned her from the right, smacked the horn at full force, and shouted, “Stupid hoe!” And then, “Man, I wish I had a gun!” Trapped in the passenger’s seat, Christyn wondered that day if she was about to see her father again.

After she lost her job at the BBQ, it had been Auralee who suggested they get out of town for a while, and Christyn went along because she knew every moment she stuck around at home jobless was another moment Jesse could use to get into her head and convince her to leave the industry. That whole trip, she’d lurked on job search websites on her phone.

“I went because you’re my best friend and I have trouble saying no to you.”

“Then listen to me now, and break up with your boyfriend.”

“Why do you have it out for him so bad?”

“All I’m saying is, that whole month, you never even seemed like you missed him. Not like you miss your coworker.”

“Jesse was never in jail! He was a text away and I knew he’d be there when I got back.”

The light changed, and Christyn took a slow turn into the bank parking lot. “Finally,” said Auralee. “Thought we weren’t gonna make it.”

“Hey, you’d be careful with your car too if you’d once been forced to live in it.”

Auralee blinked. “When did you ever live in your car?”

“When we first met? Don’t you remember?”

Christyn had been barbacking for Auralee for a few weeks when Auralee found out she was homeless, and it had turned into a whole big thing. She had begged Christyn to stay with her at her lavish penthouse suite, but Christyn refused, insisting that she couldn’t impose. Then she’d written Christyn a check for 15 grand, but Christyn refused to cash it. In the end, she wrote a letter to a potential landlord stating that as Christyn’s manager, she could certify that her income would be sufficient to cover the rent, and signed as her guarantor as well, since that was the only form of help Christyn would accept.

And now, years after the fact, she had absolutely no memory of those days.

Well, she did drink...a lot.

And maybe that’s why Christyn was still with Jesse. Why she let him make her call him Master and hit her in the face. Why she let him mold her into a person who liked these things. Once upon a time, that face thing had been a hard limit for her, but he had a way of getting under her defenses, and she was glad he had, in the end, for all the good he’d done her.

How they met was this: she’d run into him at the Renaissance Faire after her friends all abandoned her drunk ass to get lost on the grounds. He mercifully took her in, even took her back to his place to take care of her. He’d been dressed as a knight, which was fitting. She didn’t remember what she’d come as.

She didn’t know how much of her life she’d lost to being in a drunken stupor.

But thank God for Jesse to drop into her life and decide that what was left of her was worth preserving, because in the end, no matter how much money she had in the bank, her mind was all she had.

And maybe Christyn chose that moment, in that parking lot, to come clean to Auralee about the brainwashing, so that her oldest friend would finally understand and hopefully cut Jesse a little slack. Maybe hearing Christyn explain it would inspire Auralee to clean her own life up.

Or maybe they just wouldn’t talk at all on the car ride back to Auralee’s.

***

As it turned out, Christyn had a real aptitude for this bar manager thing.

Her first day in management, she took it upon herself to dust down the neglected liquor shelves and rearrange all the bottles in a way that made some form of coherent sense. Javier had to have known his bar was a mess--bottles shoved any old place with no regard to category or quality, vodkas next to liqueurs next to cognacs next to cream-based mixers that really should have been in the fridge, all on top of sticky juice and booze stains that must have been months old. She had only worked with Javier for a few shifts, but from what she could discern, he was a smart guy and a good bartender--he had credentials from bartending school, which she did not, and it was even boasted on the Capital’s website that he was a sommelier. She guessed he was just too lazy, checked-out, or drunk to ever tidy up his work area. To an extent, she found that relatable: her own apartment was a mess. But she’d clean it up in a jiffy if she was paid to maintain it.

After giving the bar a deep-clean, she went exploring and found a treasure trove of unused glassware in the back, along with a small cooler with a window in front that would fit perfectly on the back-bar area beside the cappuccino machine. After hauling the cooler out of storage and getting it up and running, she made a run to the store next door for some supplies and came back to make a batch of Jello shots to fill it up.

(Damian used to ask her every time why she always walked to the store when she had a perfectly running car; she used to find it irritating to have to explain to him again and again that it was faster to just walk across the street, but now, she missed his dumb questions, along with all his other little quirks she used to find annoying, or strange, like how he took his sweet tea with two creamers and drank enough of the stuff to make Christyn have to boil more simple syrup in the middle of a rush, and the smell of the product in his hair that probably cost more than everything she put on her whole face put together.)

The Jello shots sold out within two shifts. Meanwhile, Christyn started working on a new signature cocktail list, and as guests watched her experiment on the well, they grew interested, and more often than not, offered to buy her experimental cocktails before she even decided on a final version. Chance had to confess himself impressed.

He really got to witness her perform under pressure when she was surprised in the mid-shift by a visit from a wine rep. 

The rep was maybe in his fifties, tanned and big-toothed with a shock of bright blond hair that looked too yellow for his complexion, like maybe he’d dyed it that color to hide that it was going white. He had a briefcase full of papers and a messenger bag full of bottles and a vigorous handshake, almost too vigorous--as he reached across the bar and grab Christyn’s hand, introducing himself as Ralph Cunningham from Sundance Wine and Liquor Distribution, she felt almost lifted off the ground.

“You must be the new Somme whose name I’ve seen on the website! Christine, was it?”

Calm and collected on the outside, but with her stomach in knots, she feigned as best as she could, “Ah, yes! Yes, yes, yes. Give me one moment to speak to my manager.” She let herself into Chance’s office, closed the door, and said, “Did you go on the website, erase Javier’s name and then put mine on his old byline?” And, for good measure, “Then did you spell it wrong?”

She told him who had come calling, and his face went white. “No, no, no. The owner will not be happy about this...Christyn, just go out and talk to him, but under no circumstances are you to agree to buy anything.”

When she returned to the bar, it was with a hefty dollop of dread concealed underneath her smile. “What can I do you for, Mr. Cunningham?” she asked, but she already had an idea. If he was here to sell her something…

“I’d just like to sample you on a few of our wines for your consideration this upcoming fall, if that’s alright?”

Just the thought of alcohol entering her system loosened the knots she didn’t know she’d worked up in her shoulders and back. She’d been doing fine all day, but now, every nerve ending in her body was screaming, GIVE IT TO ME!

And, if she lost control today, it wasn’t just her own job that was on the line.

Suddenly, she had an idea. “What a lovely surprise! That sounds delightful,” she said, and produced two glasses from the rack under the bar. “But won’t you join me, Mr. Cunningham? I’m sure you already know your product well...but it never hurts to refresh the palate so you can better tell me about your wines. Besides, it’s miserable to drink alone.”

She thought if she insisted he sample with her, he might go easy on her. After all, he’d come in his own car, and probably had another meeting to drive to after this one.

She was wrong.

The first wine he had for her to try was a pink sparkling consisting of 80% prosecco and 20% pinot noir. He poured them each nearly a third of a glass. She looked into his case and saw that after this one, there were still five more wines to go.

Jesse was always good for talking her down from unexpected temptation...but he was a text message away, and her texting hand was occupied scribbling down tasting notes about wines she was under strict instructions not to order, and this rep was in her ear spouting sentences of absolutely ultraviolet prose about all the ways the wine was supposed to taste, and there was no time or room for her to call for an intervention, and the first sip tasted like lemon-lime soda because she’d just been drinking lemon-lime soda before Ralph from Sundance Wine and Liquor Whatever walked into the restaurant, but it still sent an electric buzz all the way up and down her skin. The second sip tasted more like a wine should taste, and the third sip, Lord have mercy, that was where it was at.

Ralph What's-His-Name had already finished his first pour and was opening bottle #2, and Christyn realized that if she was going to make it through this meeting, she couldn’t rely on anyone else for self-control. Thinking on her feet, she palmed the bottom half of a martini shaker off the back bar and poured what remained of her glass of bubbly inside.

This process went on for each of Mr. Wine Rep’s samples. Three tiny sips, and then she’d dump it in the dump cup. It was a battle, not picking up the whole damn cup of booze and draining it in one pull...but Damian was sitting in the county clink and depending on her.

At last, the meeting came to an end. “Well, I’ve had a wonderful time with you this afternoon, Mr. Cunningham,” said Christyn as she prepared to bid him adieu. “Unfortunately, I have a lot of back stock to sell through right now before I can get any new product onto my shelves, but I’d like to get in contact as soon as possible to talk about stocking some of these wines, especially the sparkling and that first cabernet. In fact, if you’d be so kind as to put your number in my phone, that way we’ll have a direct line to one another?”

As he left, Christyn could have sworn she saw him stumble and almost trip out the door, but who was she to judge? It was a struggle for her to dump the martini shaker full of a no-doubt disgusting mix of white-and-red-wine-with-probably-a-dash-of-her-own-saliva into the bar sink. “You handled that really well,” said Chance.

She shrugged, a modest smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve dranken a lot of wine in my day.” It was probably her second favorite type of alcohol, after vodka. “I know a good one. And his stuff was good, but not mind-blowing. And he wanted to wholesale us some of those bottles at $12 a pop! I can find better bottles at the grocery store for cheaper if I look hard enough. Also, he could have spared me the bullshit about ‘notes of pine and elderberry’ or whatever.”

Once, while she was working at Common Table, her GM had invited a wine rep to host a wine education seminar for the servers. Christyn had gotten in so much trouble that day after the rep asked her what fruit notes she could taste on one of the samples of pinot noir, and she decided to be a smartass and say, “grape.”

“When you taste a wine, all you’re tasting is the grape, the soil it was grown in, and the barrel it was aged in, if it was even aged in wood, quite a few whites are done in steel. But I guess some people will say anything to make a sale.”

“Javier probably would have gone over my head and ordered two crates of everything. I’m so glad we’ve got someone like you on board.” His smile faltered, and he went on, “That’s why I hate to have to tell you…”

“Is there something wrong?”

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to break the news all day. Your, uh…” He handed her an envelope. “Your paycheck...looked light to me. I called the owner to ask why you haven’t been given a real salary, and he said that officially speaking, I don’t have the power to promote, and that in his eyes, you’re not a ‘real manager,’ just another server with some extra responsibilities, and as such, he’s keeping you on 2.13 and tips.”

“Huh,” was all she said as she tucked the envelope into her apron pocket. She’d forgotten it was even payday.

“I’m sorry, Christyn. You deserve better.”

***

When Christyn got home from work, Jesse swung by for a spot of coffee and some rough sex. Christyn didn’t own a coffee maker, but he said he liked the instant coffee she made on the stove, with sweetened condensed milk instead of creamer and a little bit of cinnamon and cloves.

Then, suddenly, she was back at work the next morning, and she wasn’t sure what happened after Jesse left.

It wasn’t that she had a gap in her memory of the previous night...quite the opposite, in fact. She remembered two different versions of the events, and she wasn’t sure which of her memories were accurate.

In the first version, she went to bed dry, and spent hours under the sheets quaking and sobbing with cold sweats and stomach cramps from alcohol cravings, on top of anxiety attacks about what Damian must be going through, until the pain and exhaustion of it all knocked her into a deep sleep.

In the second version, she cracked into the vodka stash, took shots until the room spun, and somehow managed to get herself cleaned up and clocked in on time despite having woken up in the closet covered in piss and vomit.

***

She was in the office one morning, finalizing her list of seasonal cocktail specials on the work computer, when Chance came in and said, “There’s someone at the host stand who says she’s ‘here to return the squeegee sharpener’? I assume that means you know her.”

Of course, Christyn hadn’t thought of that prank on her own. The old ‘squeegee sharpener’ was a timeless one among servers and bartenders, but she’d never forget where she’d first heard it from.

“Auralee!” She flew out of her chair and threw open the office door, and it was a good thing she was wearing non-slip shoes because the sprint she did to the host stand could have knocked her flat on her back with one misstep otherwise. Auralee was slouched over the host stand, wearing sunglasses and chewing gum. She smelled like expensive perfume and liquor. “Come to apologize for a week of radio silence, have we?”

Auralee’s voice was hoarse when she replied. “You know, I went home, and I played out this whole argument between us while I was in the shower…”

She imagined herself telling Christyn what a fucked-up thing it was to let a man control her mind itself, and Christyn replying with ‘some schtick’ about how it ‘wasn't her mind anymore, but Master’s property’ (Christyn had to stop her here and laugh, because that really did sound like her), and then she imagined Christyn asking if what she was doing in her relationship was any different than what any restaurant employee went through with her boss, and came to a stunning conclusion.

“I guess I’ve just been on Jesse’s case because I’m...jealous?” she confessed. “I miss the days when you were mine. My impressionable little barback…thinking about it, we probably all brainwash each other a little in the restaurant industry. Us managers being some of the worst culprits. Christyn? Christyn, talk to me...what’s that grin for?”

***

Damian returned on a Tuesday, at his usual scheduled time. Christyn had already been there since before Chance arrived to unlock the doors. Everything was already set up, so she was manning the host stand when he walked in. She practically knocked it over on her way to hug him.

He was a mess. His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled like someone had dumped a whole gallon of cheap detergent on him. He was painfully thin, and she almost cried feeling the ribs in his back through the fabric of his shirt.

She imagined she must be a mess, too; work had been Hell without him. It had only been two weeks, but it felt like a hundred million years. She never wanted to let go…

But then he choked out something that sounded like “Too tight” and “Can’t breathe,” and she finally stepped back.

Again, she almost broke down. When he looked down into her eyes, his own looked hollow, and she had to stare at the floor. Him and those death-camp cheekbones. The smile that looked forced for her benefit.

“Missed you too, Chrissy,” he said.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she promised him.

“How do you know?”

“You just have to trust me. Like I told you before, I got you.”


	6. FIVE

**FIVE**

She was wearing a red checkered shirt and khakis under one of those white chef aprons. “Did we have a uniform change?” asked Damian, once he had full control of his lungs back. Christyn had a strong grip.

“Actually, I, uh...I’m a manager now,” said Christyn.

“That’s amazing!”

It also explained a lot.

When he was released, he had a handful of texts waiting for him from Chance, telling him he was free to come back to work at his earliest convenience. He knew full well Chance didn’t want him around.

“You got me my job back, didn’t you?”

She grinned sheepishly. “I may have pulled some strings.”

“I guess I owe you one, then.” As frustrated as he could get with this job, it was going to be hard for him to find another one. They’d held him as long as they could in county, but he still had an upcoming court date and charges pending. “So, what do you want to make me do, Boss?”

“For now, just relax. Take a seat at table 4, if you want. We still have about 20 minutes ‘til open, and you’ve been through a rough ordeal.”

He sat, then stood up again and paced for a while before sitting back down. She joined him a few minutes later, taking the seat across from him and setting down a huge plate of scrambled eggs and tortillas. “This manager thing has its perks,” she said. “Free food, for one thing. Although, I’m pretty sure that cook plated me extra. I think he has a crush on me. You want some?”

He wasn’t going to take her up on the offer. She’d already done enough for him. But the smell wafted towards him, and after two weeks of eating nothing but watery grits that tasted exactly how he imagined liquid drywall must taste, he could no longer resist. He started making himself a taco, and Christyn reached across the table to nudge more eggs into his tortilla. “Don’t be shy, there’s no way I’m going to finish all this.”

He watched her hands. Her manicure looked fresh. It was pretty. She looked tired, but otherwise happy. “You’re not shaking anymore,” he noticed.

“Oh, the withdrawals come and go. I think it has a lot to do with anxiety. I was damn near in convulsions yesterday. I feel a lot better today.”

“What happened today?”

“I got my friend back.”

It was like a warm fist closed around his heart.

He demolished his scrambled egg taco in three bites; he knew the eggs were prepared in big batches without any seasoning, but after what he’d been through, Christyn’s little offering was as good as any meal in a 5-star steakhouse. And, with her sitting in the booth across from him, bringing him up to speed on everything he’d missed at the restaurant--the drama, the schedule changes, the firings--it was almost like being on a fancy brunch date. “Do you still have a boyfriend?” he asked. She just nodded.

“If I offer you another egg taco, are you going to spread conspiracy theories all over the restaurant that I’m trying to fatten you up?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m just happy to be off the damn Jail Diet.”

Actually, he meant to offer her a more thorough apology for the accusations he’d made about her sex life before his little mandatory vacation. See, while he was in jail, he’d read this old book called Crash. It was all about these people who got off on getting into car accidents, and while he was reading, something about the idea of doing something generally considered self-destructive (to put it mildly) and horrifying (to be blunt) had resonated with him. He’d also had a rather explicit dream about Christyn in there, and had to confront the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t ever suspected her of being into some weird shit, so much as hoped she was, because he didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t really want to talk about it, but at the same time, the thought was there, banging in the back of his mind to be unpacked…

But before he could say anything, the restaurant opened and the first table arrived at the door to be sat and he lost his train of thought. After that, it was another slow morning, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what he’d been thinking about.

As his shift drew to a close, she came up to the host stand on her break to help him with the little sidework he had--wiping down menus, cleaning the door, minutia. While she took the work right out of his hands, he took a minute to wander around the restaurant, if only to stretch his legs before the long car ride back to the far Southwest. The bar looked nicer, more organized. He wanted to ask Christyn about what all was in the bottles, but then it was his time, and Chance snapped at him to get off the clock.

Over the next few days, Damian found himself spending as much of his downtime as he could lingering behind the bar with Christyn, and not just because she hooked him up with free food, or helped him with his cleaning duties, or even because Chance tended to go easier on him when she was close by. Of course, none of that stuff discouraged him from hanging around, but the more time he spent with her, the more he found her presence not only comforting, but interesting.

She knew all the regulars by name, along with their drink orders, and while Damian attempted to commit them to memory so he could help her be prepared when they walked in the door, none of them really stuck for him. She knew all the common grocery store items that were particularly good sources of potassium or magnesium, which, she explained, got depleted from the body as a symptom of long-term alcohol abuse, and usually returned from her walk to the store on her midmorning break with a bag full of sports drinks, coconut water, and bananas. She knew a few remedies for withdrawals, too, notably chocolate and Valium, though she preferred to stick to chocolate because the last thing she needed was a Valium addiction on top of everything. She knew how to split checks in her head, how to pair wine with entrees, and how to mend a set of work slacks with a needle and thread when the hem fell out at the bottom. She claimed she knew how to make a bird explode in the parking lot outside by the dumpsters (just feed it some rice, their bodies can’t process it)--although he hadn’t gotten to see that demonstration. He’d dared her to do it in front of him after she shared that little factoid with him one day, and she’d almost gone through with it, but he stopped her at the last second. He didn’t care if she was telling the truth or not; he realized he didn’t want to be the one to make her harm a living thing.

More or less, she kept him in constant awe with her knowledge of everything related to food and alcohol. “How long have you been working in restaurants?” he asked her one afternoon after the surprisingly heavy rush from lunch had died.

“Not a restaurant exactly, but I started as a barback at a bowling alley when I was sixteen, so, eight years?” she replied. “I wasn’t even old enough to legally pour, but Auralee didn’t care.”

“Who?”

“The bar manager at the bowling alley. She’s still the bar manager over there, I just spoke to her the other day when she swung by.”

“What, are you guys best friends or something?”

“Pretty much.”

Why did that make him jealous?

He wanted to ask what a barback was, but about then was his scheduled out time, and he knew better than to milk the clock on Chance’s watch. Besides, he had a good bowl of green waiting for him in the car. Before he clocked out, he asked her, “Do you want to smoke some weed?” But she politely declined.

***

Hit or miss, hit or miss. That was the name of the game at the Capital. The 14 of April, it had rained, and lunch had been so dead that Damian and Christyn spent the whole time yakking at the front of the restaurant and eating candy out of the bowl on the host stand meant for the guests. (He learned that the cinnamon ones were her favorite and pretended not to like them so that she would feel free to take as many as she wanted off his hands.) On the 15th, the weather was beautiful, and it was Saturday, so the restaurant was running a special for brunch with unlimited refills on mimosas and sangria, whatever those were. Families came out in droves to the neighboring outdoor shopping center, and, not long afterward, the Capital Cafe.

By noon, every table was sat, and people were still lining up outside the door. Service was quickly turning into a disaster; with only Scott on the floor and Christyn behind the bar, it was impossible to get all of the orders taken fast enough, and still, more people were clamoring to be sat. Damian was overwhelmed; he didn’t know what to tell people and almost choked from anxiety in front of a party of four…

“Right behind, buddy.” Christyn’s soft voice was his only warning before she came out of nowhere and laid a pad and pen down on the table. “It’s going to be about a fifteen minute wait for a table for four,” she said brightly to the family. “Can I get a last name?”

She jotted down the last name while he stood aside, in awe of her confidence. “How do you know it’s fifteen minutes?”

“I have a four-top that just ordered dessert; it should land in a couple of minutes and then I’ll drop the check...fifteen minutes is more than enough time for them to clear off,” she said, but that must have been for the benefit of the people who were now on a fifteen-minute wait, because while she spoke, she wrote on the pad in front of him, I really don’t.

She returned to the bar, where he could see that she was slammed with work to do--’in the weeds,’ as they said in the industry. Between building drink orders for Scott’s tickets and juicing oranges for the ever-incoming Mimosa orders from the crowd, she was beginning to look a little out of breath. But still, she smiled, serving her customers with as much of a bounce in her step as she could muster. Fuck, she had such a pretty smile. He wished he could jump behind the bar and help her...but he knew nothing about making drinks.

So he did his best to keep service running through the rush. He watched the floor, took names and quoted wait times, trying to estimate for the next guest when a table would open up, but when he wasn’t sure, he tried to imitate Christyn’s level of self-assuredness as he made up a number. Then, at last, the rush broke, and he was about to go to the bar to check in with her, see if she needed anything, but she beat him to the punch, coming up behind him at the host stand to ask, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I’m actually good...what about you?”

“If you want to polish my glassware, it would save my life right now."

Eager to be of service, he retrieved a rack of glasses from the dish pit and set to work. He was starting to get a little tired, so he popped half an Adderall he’d gotten from a neighbor and soon he had three racks of glasses dried and put away in impressive time. Feeling a burst of energy, he wiped down each table as guests began to pay their bills and leave, and for good measure, he swept behind the bar and gave a spot-sweep to the area underneath the tables, too. He left the silverware to Christyn, who did a better job of rolling it into napkins than he could hope to do himself. Broom in hand, he asked her, “What do you want me to do next?”

“You’ve already done all the work in the place, silly goose! Take a break. What do you want to eat?”

She rung him up a cheeseburger on her tab, but he wasn’t hungry enough to much more than pick at it, so he cut it in half and offered her the untouched part, but she said she didn’t eat meat anymore on account of some of the things she’d seen in the kitchen at the bowling alley, so he put the whole thing in a box. Then, she printed up a report of the day’s sales, crunched some numbers with a pad and pen, counted out eighteen dollars out of a pocket in her server book, and tucked it into the front pocket of his shirt. “What’s this for?” he asked.

“It’s standard in the industry to tip out the barback. I like to tip out 2% of sales, rather than a percentage of tips, that way you don’t lose out even if someone leaves me a shitty tip. Thanks for all your help this morning.” She smiled this glowing smile that made him wish he could stay frozen in that moment if only to get to look at her forever. Alternatively, he wished he could take her pants off and bend her over one of the barstools, but that was probably the Adderall talking. Control yourself, she has a boyfriend…

“Christyn, a word in my office?” Chance had come up behind Christyn, and he didn’t look happy.

Damian lingered by the office door to overhear the conversation between the two managers. “Christyn, I’m a little concerned. I called Dave in this morning, but he never showed up, and I was just on the phone with him and learned you called him off?”

“You’re the one who gave me a managerial position; do you want me to manage or not? We were handling it fine, Scott and me, and Damian was a great help.”

“About that...I saw you on the camera slipping him some money. I sure hope you’re not bribing him for preferential seating…”

“That was his tipout, I’ve decided to appoint him as my barback since he likes helping out on the floor so much.”

“Did I give you promotion power?”

“It’s not so much a promotion as a lateral move.”

They spoke some more in hushed tones; Damian couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he hoped Christyn wasn’t about to lose her job. If she did, he would surely be next.

When she exited the office, letting the door fall shut behind her while Chance called after her, “You’re an excellent bartender, Christyn. Just don’t let the power go to your head!” she looked irritated, but not distressed. It appeared she was safe, and by extension, so was Damian.

“I wasn’t spying on you guys--”

“Who said you were?” She smiled and gave him a long look that he wasn’t sure how to interpret.

The next day, Damian came in ready to help Christyn with whatever she needed behind the bar in what downtime he could spend away from the host stand. He popped the rest of that Adderall and started the shift off strong. However, by the time the lunch rush was in full swing, he felt himself starting to crash, and it didn’t escape Christyn’s notice. She sat him down in a vacant back booth for a break and attended to him like one of her guests, bringing him a ginger ale from the bar cooler and periodically checking on him. Finally, when he was well enough to stand without a head rush, she put him back to work.

The following week went more smoothly. He didn’t pop anything on the clock and instead focused on using the energy he could muster up naturally to do what work could be done, and take a leaf out of Christyn’s book to not let the weeds visibly shake his composure. As she was letting him off shift the day before the new schedule was posted, she gave him another one of her long looks. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing, you look nice, is all.”

He felt his cheeks go hot.

“Are you saying that because I picked up a few pounds?” He couldn’t resist asking. He’d had to loose a belt notch earlier in the week; it couldn’t be avoided while coming off the Addy. It didn’t help either that Christyn kept hooking him up with free lunch. He was trying to be good and refrain from putting her on the spot, but it was hard to ignore the special attention she continued to pay all the larger men who came into the restaurant, occasionally among them that boyfriend of hers who must have been close to 300 pounds. On top of that, he had to contend with the erotic thrill he got whenever she brought him his meal along with some encouraging words in sweet tones: Eat up, dude, they have you on a double today and you’ll need your strength.

He kept thinking about the day when he came back to work and she almost hugged the life out of him. Her body was solid and compact at its core, with surprising strength for a female, but her arms were soft past the impressive biceps, and so was her stomach and her prominent chest. He could only imagine how squeezable her ass was, all round and juicy under her work pants, which fit appropriately down the leg but were tight where it mattered. A part of him fantasized about having her sit in his lap and spoon-feed him, over the course of several days until he was just as deliciously soft as she was, and that same part of him was compelled to tease her, since he couldn’t have her.

This time, she didn’t deny anything, just shrugged. “You needed it. It’s nice to see you making a recovery from county. And you’ve put on some muscle tone, too, probably from doing all my heavy lifting. You’re starting to develop a sick set of guns, dude!” She pinched his arm and he tensed up, wanting to try and flex for her, but the moment was over, and there she was, laughing. “Paloma’s noticed, too. She keeps poking her head out the kitchen to check you out.”

“Who’s Paloma?”

“The girl that makes the salad.”

To get his mind off of his bar manager, Damian decided to ask out the salad girl. She was a year older than him and didn’t speak much English, but she understood enough to agree to go to the movies with him. Once they arrived, though, he realized all he had to his name until payday was what his barback tipout from Christyn earlier that day, all of $15. (He still wasn’t entirely clear on what a ‘barback' actually was; every time he meant to ask her, it slipped his mind, but he figured it to be the title given to the bartender’s assistant.)

Tickets were $13 a pop, so the salad girl paid, and despite his insistence that he buy the popcorn, she bought that too out of pity. It was cold in the screening room, and he didn’t say anything, but she must have seen him shivering because she passed him her sweater across the armrest. That night, he went home alone and blew his tipout on a little bit of weed, and in the morning he awoke to find the salad girl had not texted him. The whole experience left him thoroughly emasculated, and of course, Christyn had to ask when he arrived at work, “How was your date?”

“Scott was the closing waiter last night? The bev station is a mess,” was all he said before he set about diligently cleaning.

***

Damian was shaping up into quite the star employee, Christyn thought to herself as she watched him detail the soda nozzles and scrub the iced tea drum. Good: that meant her plan was working, which was remarkable considering she didn’t have a clue what she was doing.

Jesse had never answered her question about the finer details of how he had accomplished her own brainwashing, so she’d had to put a little guesswork into her efforts with Damian. Thus far, she had been playing a game of imitation. Just as Jesse had given her a new role in life--that of his submissive--and used it to condition her away from her self-destructive habit of constant day drinking, she gave Damian a new job title in the hopes that she could use it to give him a purpose that would motivate him away from whatever patterns of illegal behavior that were getting him in trouble with the law. She looked after him while they were together, built a rapport with him, and made him care about her. Then, when he responded to her distress during the rush with a sense of personal urgency, she got him used to following her orders by making him feel like a hero whenever he did: it was always, Want to save my life right now? before she asked him to complete a task for her, and Thank you so much, you’re a life saver! once he’d done it. And, as Jesse had given Christyn a daily routine (insisting of a mantra she was to repeat upon waking, on the ground by the bed with her head to her knees, stating her devotion to Master, which she never did anymore just to save time, and what Jesse didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him), Damian had his own new routine of opening sidework to complete for her: check the beverage station, polish the glassware, drag the trash cans in from out back and fit them with bags, and write the daily drink specials on the blackboard in front of the restaurant. He was astoundingly good at that last one, with exceptional handwriting for a dude, and he often accompanied his transcriptions with drawings of the drinks in loving detail with the chalk.

There were some aspects of the job he was having more trouble with than others. For example, she’d tried to train him to work the well, but he couldn’t seem to be able to wrap his mind or his hands around the use of a shaker and strainer. He kept trying to strain drinks with the strainer upside down, and making a mess on the back bar as a consequence. He also couldn’t tell a bourbon from a rye, or even a vodka from a gin, even though she could tell he was trying his best.

Cleaning, though, was something at which he developed an exceptional aptitude. From someone who’d fumbled with a squeegee when they first met, he surprised her nowadays with the spotless condition in which he left her bar every shift before asking her if he was dismissed. Unlike herself, he actually seemed to enjoy the acts of scrubbing and polishing things, and often she caught him chipping away at her dirty work with an easy grin on his face, as if shining glassware and dusting mirrors helped reduce his stress.

This morning, however, he appeared to be under a tremendous amount of stress, by the way he was taking it out on the insides of the iced tea drums.

Christyn walked into the kitchen and asserted her managerial authority to plate herself and her barback some breakfast: potatoes, scrambled eggs, a stack of rye toast, and some slices of avocado for them to split, and then, as an afterthought, some bacon on a separate plate, once she remembered that unlike herself, her assistant was not a vegetarian. While she was in there, she decided to strike a casual conversation in Spanish with Paloma and see what was up. Apparently, the movie had been alright. Damian hadn’t been able to pay for tickets, but Paloma didn’t hold that against him. She still found him quite attractive, but was doubtful about any future for them in account of he spoke no Spanish whatsoever.

“I am so sorry,” said Christyn as she brought out breakfast and beckoned Damian over to their usual table. “I would have never told you you date Paloma if I knew you weren’t bilingual.”

“You thought I was bilingual?”

“Your last name is Mendez…”

“I’m only a quarter Mexican and I don’t know that grandpa, give me a break!”

“I wasn’t trying to be presumptuous...but I totally was being presumptuous, and I’m sorry,” she said, shrinking back into the booth. While she picked at her breakfast, he made himself an impressive sandwich out of the spread and devoured it. She found herself grinning at his appetite. She liked to watch him appreciate his food--not in a sexual way, as he might insinuate had he been able to read her mind, but in a way more appropriate to a supervisor regarding her direct subordinate. It was good to see him regaining his health and strength in the weeks following his jail stint. As he put some weight back on, he performed on the clock with more energy, and she had confidence in him not to collapse under the intense workload on a long shift. He could still barely lift a keg of beer three inches onto a rolling cart when she was able to drag the keg all the way to the bar from the far-back walk-in cooler, but he’d get there.

“So, what are your other three quarters?” she asked, trying to make conversation.

“My grandma on my dad’s side is a Black lady, but I’ve never met her either. I think she lives in New York. My mom was white, she was actually a famous supermodel, but that was a long time ago. Maybe you’ve heard of her, Matilda Lam?”

Christyn’s eyes widened. Yes, she recognized the name. Her uncle Chester used to have old swimsuit catalogs featuring spreads of Matilda in protective bags on his bookshelf. According to him, they were worth a lot of money now. Her cousin Brock used to take the magazines and jack off to them when his parents weren’t home.

“Didn’t she get...you know…?”

“Killed, yeah,” said Damian. Christyn hadn't wanted to say it herself, but it had been all over the news when the former supermodel was strangled to death by her husband. “I was too young to remember, but the way my sister tells it, he was acting in self-defense. She says Mom had always been a rager, and one day she attacked him with a knife and the fight got so out of hand that the neighbors called the cops. By the time they got there, she’d been dead for a few minutes, and he tried to explain that it was an accident, he only meant to fight her off, but you know how the cops see it when it’s a dead white lady and an ethnic dude. That’s why I’ll disappear from the floor for a few minutes sometimes. Half the time when I say I’m taking a bathroom break, I’m actually taking a phone call from my dad in prison.”

“Damn...and I thought you just had a weak bladder.”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Damian, but she got a laugh out of him, which is what she had been going for. “Oh, I’m sorry--shut the fuck up, Boss.”

“I deserved that,” she said. “In all seriousness, though, I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Like I said, I don’t remember. But I’m sure you know how it goes; you said your dad died. Did your mom also…?”

“No, she’s still with us. Just in an institution.”

“I see. That’s why you lived with your aunt?”

She nodded. Somehow it felt natural, opening up to Damian and vice versa. Still, a lump formed in her throat, like it always did when she talked about Mom. “After the cancer took my dad, she became really depressed. There were times when she wouldn’t speak or even leave her bed for days. Then one day, she got up and said we were going for a drive...I was a kid, I didn’t think anything weird was going on. I was just happy to be spending time with her. Only, she drove the car right into Taylor’s Bayou. The paramedic who resuscitated me said I was dead for at least three minutes.”

“Oh my God...I can’t believe you were dead.”

She shrugged. “You pretend you’re over it, until one day you really are.” As she looked into his eyes across the table, she sensed in him a thorough understanding of how she felt, and she was glad she’d decided to fight for his job. It was nice to have a friend around here.

***

Not too long after Christyn and Damian had their chat about their crazy moms, Mother’s Day rolled around, and the restaurant was packed for brunch. Not even thirty minutes into the shift, Christyn pulled Damian from the host stand and pulled Chance from the office to take his place. “If he’s not going to talk to tables like a real manager, the least he can do is seat them while we do the hard part,” she muttered as she walked back behind the bar and started pulling oranges out of the cooler. “Juice these for me, won’t you, my darling? I’m already running low,” she said as she passed them to Damian over the counter. Her little slip brought a grin to his face, even though by now, he knew better than to get his hopes up. That was just how she talked to people in the restaurant ...unless she was mad at them, of course. More than once, he’d caught her calling the cooks and busboys mi Amor; he knew enough Spanish to know what that meant.

But there was no time to dwell on it, as there was work to be done. After he restocked Christyn’s orange juice, he had 24 tables’ worth of used glassware to collect and bring to her so she could wash it behind the bar, the floor kept turning, and right in the middle of the rush, a keg ran out while she was with a customer.

He rolled a fresh one out from the walk-in, and, as she was still busy, figured he’d change it himself. He’d never changed a keg before, but Christyn made it look simple enough...only, he couldn’t get the hose out of the empty keg no matter how hard he yanked on it. He even tried with both hands, but no luck. Eventually, Christyn noticed him struggling (or maybe one of her guests had pointed it out to her, he was getting some odd stares) and came to his rescue. “You have to turn it off and then twist. Here.” She placed her hand over his and guided him through the motions, pulling the handle of the tap hose into an erect position and then twisting counterclockwise.

He flushed red with embarrassment at needing help with something so simple, and hoped he could make up for it by putting in the new keg right, only she insisted, “I’ll take care of it.”

Scared she was losing faith in him, he asked, “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“Yeah, hands on the line to table 5.”

Fuck. He didn’t know what that meant. Usually, he had time to ask Christyn to clarify whenever she slipped into restaurant-ese, but this was the busiest shift he’d ever worked here, and right after replacing the keg, she’d become occupied doing at least three other things at once. So, determined not to screw up twice in a row, Damian went to the kitchen to see if he could figure out this ‘hands on the line’ thing, ‘on the fly,’ as they said in the industry.

There, on the line, was a ticket for table 5: two seats, one house salad, one tomato soup, the salad marked for the lady. Oh, she just needs me to drop her food off at her table, he realized. Why didn’t she just say that? He took the soup and the salad, but the soup must have been sitting under the heat lamp for a while because the bottom of the plate was really hot! He rushed to drop off the order as quickly as possible to get that damn soup out of his hands, and when he was at the table, he got a little flustered--halfway between saying, Be careful, it’s really hot, and, Here’s your soup, Sir, he somehow ended up blurting out, “It’s really soup.”

The forty-something man at the table sitting across from his elderly mother gave him a quizzical look and said, “I should certainly hope so!”

Once again mortified, he retreated into the kitchen and ran some more orders, just for an excuse to step off the dining room floor as frequently as possible, until Christyn crossed his path and pressed something into his hand--a cigarette and lighter. “You’re doing great, buddy. Go take a smoke break, but don’t be too long, because I’m about to need flutes again in a hot second.”

By the time the rush was winding down, Damian was exhausted and ready to collapse in a back booth for a breather, but then, one last table walked through the doors. It was an older woman, maybe in her fifties or sixties, with her two twenty-something sons. The boys were both tall, broad, and built, the older one resembling a former college linebacker while the younger one might actually be a current college linebacker. The woman had a stern look about her, in her gray skirted suit with her hair pulled into a tight, tight bun. Although she was older, thinner, blonder, and just a little shorter, she bore a striking resemblance to someone he knew…

Chance had abandoned the host stand as soon as the rush broke, so despite his fatigue, Damian met the family at the door. “Table for three?” he asked.

“What do you think?” one of the boys asked their mother, while completely ignoring Damian. “Should we just eat here? Everywhere else is booked solid.”

Then, the other one, the younger one, pointed across the floor and laughed. “Look at that! Christyn’s a waitress!”

“The cruel irony...I want to leave,” said the woman. Her voice had an airy, breathy quality to it. Neither she nor her sons had so much as acknowledged Damian yet. Behind the bar, he noticed Christyn had suddenly become incredibly interested in polishing the beer tap handles with a wet rag. How did these people know her?

“Sure,” said the older son, laying on the sarcasm, “let’s just leave, and eat at home, because we’re not going to find another open table. Come on, Mom, it’s just lunch.”

At last, the woman looked at Damian, but even then, she seemed to look past him. “Fine. Table for three.”

He sat them towards the front, a cautious distance from the bar, and while Scott was taking their drink order, snuck off to ask Christyn what was up. “Hey, who are those folks?”

“That’s my Aunt Millicent, and my cousins, Brock and Mike.” She was trying to sound calm, but she wasn’t doing a very good job.

“I thought your family lived in Beaumont,” said Damian.

“They do, but Mike goes to school at Rice, or maybe UH, I can’t remember.”

Damian wanted to press for more details. These were the people Christyn had grown up with, but there was no familiarity now. He was all too familiar with the feeling of going from family members to distant strangers--that had been him and his sister in spades. Maybe that was why he wanted to hear Christyn’s story. But she was unavailable for comment, as it suddenly became very urgent that she dust all the liquor bottles on the shelf one by one.

So, Damian fell back and did his job. Once the table’s appetizers were up, he ran them and refilled the table’s waters. A few minutes later, Scott took their entree orders, and when the bell dinged in the kitchen signaling that they were ready, Damian made haste to clear the app plates. He knew he technically didn’t have to do all this extra work outside of the bar area, but he couldn’t resist doing a little tableside espionage. “So, Christyn mentioned y’all are her family,” he began. “Where’s Uncle Chester today? He couldn’t make it out to celebrate the special day?”

Damian liked Uncle Chester. Despite being a little conceited (he had Ph.D inscribed on his credit card and insisted on being called Dr. Cardwell by the waitstaff), he was funny and he always left a good tip for Christyn, along with a couple bucks for Damian, even after he admitted Christyn tipped him out. Aunt Millicent, however, didn’t seem quite so fond of him.

At the mention of his name, her whole face screwed up and turned red. “The nerve,” she said, rising from her seat. Brock, or maybe it was Mike, tugged on her sleeve and tried to get her to sit back down, but it was no use. “Did Christyn ever tell you why I threw her out of the house?”

She hadn’t told him she was thrown out of the house at all, but that would explain why she’d spent the last eight years waiting tables when her family were these rich folks.

“I guess she would keep quiet about it. Or maybe she’s made me out to be the bad guy?” Her volume was steadily elevating, her breathing quickening, erratic, until it all culminated in one big snap. She grabbed him by the necktie and shook him, causing him to drop the plates he was holding to the ground where they shattered. “Did she tell you I caught her in bed with my husband?”

“Hey!”

Damian wasn’t sure how much of the conversation Christyn had overheard, but there she was, all breathing fire. “Get your fucking hands off the staff or I’ll involve the authorities!”

“What gives you the right? Little whore,” Aunt Millicent spat, but nevertheless, she let go of Damian’s tie, much to his relief. “I want to speak to a manager.”

“Well, what do you know, you’re in luck! That’s me.”

At that, Aunt Millicent turned even redder. Damian half-expected her to pull out a firearm...but all she said was, “We’ll take our mains to go and the check.”

The Cardwells waited by the door for their food while Damian stood frozen on the spot, stunned. Christyn bent down on her knees and scooped up the pieces of broken plates with a rag she had in her apron. As she worked, she glanced up at Damian for a moment, only a moment, but that glance broke his heart. She looked like a wounded animal.

After Scott picked up the check, he said, “I didn’t catch what you said to them, Miss Manager, but you just cost me a tip.” He took off his apron, threw it on the ground, and stormed out with a grand, “I quit!”

Christyn retreated into the kitchen for a while after that. Damian waited dutifully outside the kitchen door for her until she emerged with a pot of steaming hot water, a whisk, and a large plastic bucket. He followed her behind the bar and said, “Christyn, please…”

Said, “Please don’t avoid me. I know you know what she said about you, but nothing’s changed about us. I don’t think of you different, or bad...I know there’s two sides to every story.”

She graced him with a small smile and dumped the hot water into the plastic bucket. “Want to learn how to make the jello shots?”

She said, “Get the big pitcher from the kitchen, I think I left it in the soup station. Fill it up to the one-liter line with ice and water. The ice is very important for getting the jello to set.”

When he returned with the ice water, she said, “First the jello goes in, and then the ice water.” She retrieved a bag of gelatin mix from a bar cabinet, tore it open with the knife on the end of her wine opener, and dumped it into the hot water. Then Damian poured in the ice water. “Now give it a mix…”

He picked up the whisk and began to stir. As he did, she disappeared for a second and came back with a bottle of liquor. “One 1-liter bottle of vodka. You can use any 40-proof liquor, but I usually use vodka.” She dumped it into the mix, and as he continued to stir, she began to open up. “Chester never called me his niece. I was always ‘Matthew's daughter,’ or ‘your brother’s daughter’ with Aunt Millie. When I was younger, I thought it was because he didn’t like me. It was othering, but I wouldn’t say it was a miserable existence. Mom and Dad didn’t have much money; we all lived in one small apartment, but Aunt Millicent had married rich. I don’t think I’d ever seen such a big house. So I was happy, even if for a while Uncle Chester seemed cold to me. Me, Brock, and Mike used to roughhouse in the yard together. They usually kicked my ass until one year, I got Mike in a chokehold and made him beg for mercy. I was closest to the maid and the cook, though. They taught me Spanish and I helped them out while they were working. I didn’t really mind being the spare, when I got to live in relative comfort. But then everything changed.

“I turned sixteen, and Uncle Chester bought me a car, just like he’d bought Brock a car a few years prior. I picked out old Carolaine there, she was secondhand and at 5 grand off the lot, the cheapest thing available. I didn’t want to burden him, see, because I knew I was just the extra kid he had pushed on him. But then he started teaching me how to drive her, and we got really close in that car. He confessed all sorts of things to me. Said I had become such a beautiful young lady. He complained a lot about what a nag Aunt Millie was, all while putting his hand on my leg, like, Come on, a little more accelerator won’t kill us…

“He was smart...he was an important man in his field...

“He used to have me drive us to the coffee shop up the freeway, and he’d buy me coffee cakes…

“And then I’d drive us home, and Aunt Millie would be out of the house, so he’d pour us some whiskey out by the pool.

“I felt so special.”

“That’s...Jesus...and here I thought he was a decent man, when all this time he’s been this disgusting--this pedo!”

“I’m not saying what he did was okay, but I don’t think what I did was okay, either,” said Christyn. “You know how it is, when you’re sixteen. You think you’re grown already. At the time, I honestly felt I was falling in love with him. Hell, sometimes I think I still love him.

“Then, when Aunt Millie caught us, and divorced him and threw me out, I drove into the city, and I slept in that car for months, living off scraps from trash cans.

“I can kind of see where you get your pet theory about me. I like to feed people...I kind of like to watch them eat, but it comes from knowing firsthand that having to go hungry is a miserable way to live. I’m not some evil fairytale witch hell-bent on fattening up my regulars. That’s more Auralee’s department; maybe you’ll meet her one of these days.

“Now it’s time to put the jello shots into ramekins and put them in the fridge.” She produced a sleeve of plastic cups and lids, along with a ladle, from another bar cabinet, and let him start pouring the shots while he tried to process everything she had said. It was horrifying, thinking of the smartest, kindest woman he knew living on the streets, and even worse, her pervy old uncle taking advantage of her, even if he wasn’t her blood relative. It made him wish he still had his piece…

But it was hard to show anger outwardly when he was tasked with the delicate duty of pouring liquid into small cups and topping them with small lids. Maybe it was the work that kept him calm on the surface while his mind raced, or maybe it was the steady cadence of Christyn’s voice. “So you started working in a restaurant to survive,” he said. “Me too. Without this job, I’d be fucked.”

“You? The son of a famous supermodel?”

He flushed with embarrassment. “There isn’t any money left from her modeling days. She had a lot of problems with drugs. I had a good job before, in security, but I fucked it up.”

“Hey, who says foodservice isn’t a good job?” said Christyn. “You’re a good barback--”

“You’re the only one who seems to think so. Chance--”

“Screw Chance. He was a total fuck-up at your age. Now, he’s pulled himself out of a hole, and he’s afraid to fall. He’s afraid to do anything except for sit in that chair in that office! But you...as I was saying, you have potential. I’m telling you, stick in the industry, and by the time you’re my age, if you play your cards right, you could have 20 grand in the bank.”

“Nuh uh.” He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t believe me?” She pulled out her phone, pushed a few buttons, and waved a summary of her bank statement in front of his face--all $20,392.00.

He was breathless. He didn’t think he’d ever seen that much money with his own two eyes. “There’s no way that’s yours!”

“It’s got my name on it.” She smirked, almost braggingly, but then, he supposed, she deserved to brag. “And that could be you in a few years.”

He knew that day wouldn’t be anytime soon, though, because at that moment, it suddenly occurred to him that he had been so distracted with work lately, he had missed his last court date.

***

This wasn’t the end of the world. He had been let out of jail on a PR bond, which meant even if he missed a court date, he wouldn’t have to go back unless he couldn’t pay the bond amount. It was over a thousand dollars, but he had a good job. On the schedule he’d been working, and with tipout from Christyn supplementing his paycheck, he’d have it by the deadline, easy.

He decided to dedicate himself to being as helpful as possible at work and really earning his keep. Christyn was a great motivator, always eager to help him expand his bar knowledge. She taught him the proper way to open and pour wine at a table, the difference between a lager and a pilsner, and how to pour shots without measuring, although he still left most of the drink-making to her…

Until one day she put him on the spot. “C’mere! You’re gonna make this Old Fashioned for the dude at table 23.”

He was nervous. He’d messed up before when she tried to teach him how to mix, but she assured him this cocktail was easy.

He joined her at the well, where she handed him a thick wooden stick (a ‘muddler,’ she explained), and under her careful instruction, he muddled the orange and cherry together with sugar at the bottom of a short glass, then added ice, whiskey, a splash of club soda, and something called angostura bitters.

She stuck a straw in it when he was done, pulled it out, and took a taste...his heart sunk as her whole face soured. “Did I make a mistake?”

“No, some smartass put salt in my sugar shaker, and I think I know who it was.” She remade the drink in seconds flat, with sugar from a packet this time, ran it to the table and made a beeline for the office.

Damian followed her to the doorway, watching her as she calmly asked Chance to review the camera footage. Video evidence revealed Dave to be the culprit, but Chance insisted he couldn’t fire him: “We’re already short staffed enough as it is.”

“But food tampering is a felony!” Christyn pointed out, right as Dave passed by the open office door. He took a smoke break after that and never returned.

“He probably has open warrants and doesn’t want another one,” Damian concluded.

***

Christyn must have taken the reservation while Damian was in the bathroom on the phone with his father. Last name, Kingston, first, Auralee, party of four for six thirty. He wondered if it was the same Auralee Christyn had told him about, her old boss who was into fattening up the regulars (or had that been a joke? And why couldn’t he get his mind off this stupid topic?)

It had to be her, right? Auralee wasn’t exactly a common name.

All day on a double, he waited, curiosity knotting up his insides, for her and her party to arrive. He was standing at his post by the door, going through the shelves of the host stand and looking for something to do, when at 6 on the dot, a tall, kinda heavy set white dude with a full beard and gray suit walked in alone. He had a bag over one shoulder that was too thick to be a briefcase, and despite his clean, professional appearance, it was with a casual familiarity that he asked, “Hey man, is it open seating at the bar?”

“Be my guest.”

“Sweet, thanks, bro!” The stranger reached over the host desk to offer a handshake, but before Damian could meet him halfway, Christyn called from behind the bar,

“Roger Simmons, stop my heart!” 

“You still have yet to convince me you have one, Ms. Brandywine.”

“You two know each other?”

Christyn walked up to the front and gave this Roger guy the best side-hug she could given their height difference. “Roger here is the owner of the Cannon Distillery uptown,” she explained to Damian. “I assume he’s here on a business call...is that right, Roger, have you come to sell us something?”

“Actually, a little bird told me my old business advisor had worked her way up to management, and I thought it might be nice to swing by to see you, grab a drink, and drop off a little early birthday present.” He patted the bag at his side.

“Business advisor! I taught you how to make jail hooch when we were nineteen, you’re the one who taught yourself how to distill and opened a whole company. But come on, sit! My bar’s been empty all day, it’s got me feeling sorry for the seats, they must be cold!”

Damian couldn’t help but linger by the bar watching the two old friends go back and forth with an undeniable sexual chemistry between them. The early birthday present, as it turned out, was a bottle of cognac aged in a chardonnay barrel. “This looks lovely! I’m gonna go put this in my car, though, I don’t think I’m supposed to have any bottles in here without one of those stickers from the TABC.” 

While she stepped out, Roger flagged down Damian and asked, “Do you know if Christyn is still dating someone named Jacques Devareaux?”

“No. I mean, she’s dating a guy, but his name’s Jesse.”

“Bummer.”

“You’re interested?”

“Well, to tell you the truth…” Roger looked around to make sure Christyn hadn’t yet returned and admitted, “She and I had a brief thing, once upon a time. But then she ghosted me for a week and the next time I saw her, she was dating this guy from the bowling alley where she worked, a part-time pinsetter mechanic who had served a term in the French Foreign Legion.”

“The what?”

“According to her, Jacques ‘saved her life,’ and how am I supposed to top that? We’ve remained in contact, but mostly just to talk about business. Don’t let her be modest, she’s actually quite a talented financial advisor. But she doesn’t talk about her love life much when I ask. I guess I wanted to do some asking around about the one that got away.”

Christyn came back in then. “What are we drinking today, Roge?”

“How about one of your watermelon kamikazes?”

Christyn winced. “I don’t have any watermelon here, but I can do it with blueberries!”

“Let’s go, then.”

As she made the drink, Damian returned to the door to watch for Auralee, but the next person to walk in was actually Jesse. “Hey, man! Good to see you’re back; Christyn told me you had a little run-in with the law.”

“Yeah, it was bullshit, bro! Someone called me in as an intoxicated driver. I wasn’t even drunk! I just smoked a little weed,” said Damian as he led Jesse to his usual table.

“She also tells me you’re shaping up to be quite a talented barback.”

“She...she told you that?” said Damian, going a little red.

“She tells me everything,” said Jesse as he sat down. Then, with a smirk, he reiterated, “Nothing in her head is a secret from me.”

Damian thought that was a weird thing to say, but put the thought out of his mind. Sure, he wished he could be the guy who got to fuck Christyn, but he couldn’t let it make him jealous or judgmental. Jesse was always nice to him. Whenever he came to the restaurant, they would talk about cars and girls, and he tipped generously.

“In that case, can you tell me when her birthday is?” asked Damian. “I know it’s coming up, and I wanted to see if I’d have time to save up and get her a little something.”

To his surprise, Jesse’s face went blank. “That’s...an excellent question,” he said, but he didn’t answer it. Maybe their relationship was on the rocks. Damian didn’t want to be happy about it, but a part of him wanted to hope he might have a chance. What kind of guy didn’t know when his own girlfriend’s birthday was?

Any hope he had was soon shattered, however, as Christyn arrived at the table with Jesse’s usual cola, light on the ice. Once at the table, she got on bended knee at the corner, looking up at Jesse with utter reverence, her face beaming. “Sorry about the wait! Guy at the bar wanted a complicated drink.”

“It’s no issue, Christyn. While I do appreciate the attention, I know that here, your work comes first.”

Damian retreated to the host stand, where he stood and watched the table from afar. He expected some sort of affection from Jesse, as Christyn was clearly begging for it, but instead, he just ordered quickly and sent her away. Damian was shocked, and it took two rings of the bell on the host stand to turn him around and bring him to attention.

“‘Scuse me. I have a reservation. Last name Kingston, 6:30.”

“Oh, yes! You must be Ms. Auralee…”

The first thing Damian noticed about Auralee was that for such a thin woman, she took up a great deal of space, almost as if she was making a point to do so. She was leaned over the host stand with both elbows on the surface of the desk, spread wide, one long, long glittery manicured fingernail tapping her name on the reservation list. Her feet were in a similarly wide stance, her hips sticking way out into the entryway. Even her hair, which was bright auburn and fell past her mid-back, was all over the place. She was wearing huge hoop earrings and a draping shawl and chunky suede boots that looked at least a size too big for her. Her grin was big, too; she might have looked like one of those magazine models his mother used to pose in catalogs with, only those girls always had such blank, calm expressions on their faces. Her head was cocked to one side and he could tell she was staring him straight in the face even through her oversized sunglasses, although he could not make out the color of her eyes.

“I see you’re a few minutes early,” he said. “Would you like to wait up at the front for the rest of your party?”

“Oh, it’s just me. I put in a four-top reservation because I wanted a booth,” she explained. “One by the bar, if you have it?”

“Sure...right this way.”

He led her to table 4, where she threw herself into one side and laid out across the bench with one elbow on the table and her feet up. “Christyn will be right with you.”

And right with her she was, once she’d rung in Jesse’s dinner order. The two women chatted animatedly, catching up, Damian presumed. He would have liked to get a word in with her edgewise, just out of curiosity, even if she was a little...not what he’d expected? She had this weird energy about her. And he didn’t want to think it, lest he have to admit he was a kind of shallow, but she was too skinny for his taste. Meanwhile, Roger had started to look around uncomfortably, practically squirming on his barstool.

He stepped back behind the bar to check up on the guy. “Is everything okay? Ah, I see what the problem is,” he said, his eyes falling to Roger’s nearly empty glass. “You need another drink. You want a beer? Or, if you want, Chrissy taught me how to make this drink, it’s called an Old Fashioned.”

“It’s not just that,” Roger admitted. “My ex-girlfriend just walked in.” He gestured with his head towards Auralee’s table. “And it wouldn’t be so bad, except...well, we broke up because I cheated on her...with Christyn.”

“Oh. Was this while they were both working at the bowling alley?”

“You know what? An Old Fashioned sounds delicious…”

Damian made the drink, set it down, and waited for Roger to tell him more of the story, but he didn’t. He just complimented him on the cocktail.

“And make me something good!” Auralee called towards Christyn’s back as Christyn returned to the bar to ring in her dinner order. She threw a drink together, one of the cockails from the menu she’d made, and handed it to Damian. It looked like a Mimosa, but it had some dark liquor sunk to the bottom and some orange zest and a decorative flower on top.

“Damian, this is for Auralee, but she’s cut off after three, understand?” she said. “I don’t need her crashing her car and making either of us criminally liable.”

“She really has that low a tolerance?”

“That, and I suspect she may have started before she got here,” said Christyn. “Man, she used to be a terrible influence on me. Back in the day, we used to start in the middle of the shift...then, once the bowling alley closed, we’d hit the clubs, then drink straight from the bottle at her penthouse...wake up feeling like we’d been eviscerated. Though, I suppose she actually has been eviscerated…”

“I...I don’t know what that word means.”

“All the same, it’s probably not my place to talk about it. But she’ll probably tell you all about it after her second drink. Oh, and can you bring her a water, too, please?”

“How’s that going by the way, the drinking thing?” he asked as he poured the water.

“Good. I’m down to three shots a night, or some nights, nothing at all,” said Christyn, smiling with pride.

When he brought Auralee her drinks, she was feeling chatty. “What’s your name?” she asked, so he told it to her. “Ah, so you’re the barback Christyn won’t stop talking about.”

“She...she talks about me with you, too?”

“She said you’re one of the best she’s ever worked with; ‘in need of some polish, but that comes with experience.’ Her words. Anyway, how’s the chicken prosciutto flatbread here?”

“I...well, I heard it’s good.”

“If I don’t finish mine, do you want the rest?”

“I...uh...sure.” He knew Christyn was going to buy him dinner later on her manager tab, but he could always offer Auralee’s leftovers to the guy that did the dishes. She seemed a little too pleased with his ‘yes,’ though, so it looked like Christyn wasn’t joking about Auralee’s particular interests.

She chucked back her drink in one pull. “This is good,” she said. “It’s not one of the drinks I taught her, though.”

“She invented it,” said Damian.

“Tell her it’s excellent. And that I want another one just like it. And one for the cute baby grand sitting at the bar.”

He put in the order with Christyn, just in time to hear two dings of the bell from the kitchen. He dropped off Jesse’s food, then Auralee’s food, and noticed Auralee was slumped over in her seat noticeably more than before. “So how do you know that guy?” he asked, already knowing the answer, but he wanted to see just what she would reveal to him.

She laughed. “We go back years and years...he must have been about your age when he first walked into my bar. About your size, too. Well, taller, obviously, but you get the picture.” Why was she looking pointedly at him when she said that? It was almost as if she knew he secretly fantasized about being fattened up by a beautiful woman...but how could she? Had Christyn told her? But how would Christyn have known? He was pretty sure he hadn’t let that slip to her, but sometimes he did a bunch of drugs and did stuff and forgot about it.

“Yeah, Christyn did mention…”

“Mention what? That I was a feeder?”

So there was a word for it.

“Sit,” said Auralee. “You’re working too hard,” and the customer was always right, and he was exhausted from working so many extra hours lately, so he sat in the booth across from her.

“I can’t help it,” she said. “Ever since the bypass, I’ve been ruled by the compulsive urge to feed up my men...maybe so I can live vicariously through them while watching them enjoy their meals, or maybe I miss my old body and I want at least one of us to be soft to make the sex experience a little more comfortable and interesting. I try not to overthink it. Ooh, do you want to see pictures?” Without waiting for a response, she whipped out her phone and pulled up a photo of three people. One of them was Christyn, with a bottle in one hand and her arm slung around the shoulders of this guy with dark hair and a distant expression, and then, on the left, a very round redheaded girl, who Damian would not have guessed was Auralee. “I was cute, no?”

She was, actually. There was a light and vigor in her eyes back then that she didn’t have now. “Who’s the guy?”

“That there’s my brother, JD. He and Chrissy weren’t dating yet, but she’s always been the biggest tease. I don’t even think she knows it. But that right there is his ‘trying to hide a boner’ face.”

Damian snickered a little before his mind made a connection: “JD...Jacques Devareaux?”

“He was born Brandon, but he picked up a new identity when he joined the military in France--he couldn’t join here because of his record. So, what have you heard about him?”

“Not much...just that he saved Christyn’s life.”

Auralee was taking another sip of her drink, and she almost made herself choke laughing. “That Chrissy, always so melodramatic!”

What happened, according to Auralee, was this: Roger and his college buddies were regulars at the bowling alley, and one day he got the bright idea to try and buy beer without an ID. Christyn and Auralee, of course, refused to sell it to him, but they did offer him some liquor out of flasks they kept in their aprons outside by the dumpster. Christyn even taught him how to make wine at home out of fruit juice and bread yeast, which tasted like crap, but when you were underage, you took what you could get. The three of them became fast friends.

Christyn and Roger were about the same age, with Auralee a good five years older than both, so maybe, in hindsight, she should have yielded him to her protege--but she was smitten, and Christyn swore she would back off. Besides, Roger seemed to like having an older sugar mama to buy him fancy bottles of liquor and take him out to fancy dinners.

“And then one day I walked in on the two of them drunk, fucking in my pool. I was understandably upset...so the next day at work, I slipped Chrissy a little sedative in her soda, and once she passed out in a booth, I dragged her to the walk-in cooler and handcuffed her to the shelf with all the kegs on it. Oh, don’t look at me like that! It was only meant to be a harmless prank. I was gonna let her out that day...but then I got drunk and forgot about her. JD found her in there a week later. She was withdrawing really bad from alcohol and according to him, she’d soiled herself.”

“You could have killed her!”

“But I didn’t, obviously. Oh, can I have another drink?”

Three was the cutoff, he remembered, and he was going to ask Christyn to make Auralee’s last one and then close her out, but before he could, Chance called her into the office. While he was in the bar area waiting for her to come out, Roger asked him for another Old Fashioned.

So, he made two, handed one to Roger, and ran the other to Auralee. “She’s busy. Here’s an Old Fashioned. It’s all I know how to make.”

She took a sip and gave him a delighted smile. “This is really good!” she said. Then, “Hey, I hope you don’t think I’m a monster or anything, for what I’ve confessed today. Christyn and I, we get into some mischief, but I never meant to hurt her. I try and take care of all my employees. I actually have an offer for you, if you should choose to take it.” She held out her business card across the table. “That’s my mobile number. I’m actually hiring for barbacks, servers, and cooks at the moment."

“I already have a job.”

“I see that...but just so you know, the girl I have barbacking now can only work on the weekends, but she walks with over a bill a night, and that’s just her tipout from me. She makes an hourly wage, too, none of this $2.13 bullshit. We have whole leagues full of loyal customers with deep pockets coming in from all over the state, and I even have a few choice clientele who come in to see me at the bar for, shall we say, a special, tailored experience, and tip over a thousand dollars, which, of course, is split with the support staff. Imagine making at least two hundred dollars off of one tab!”

It would get him out of the financial woods as far as his legal fees were concerned, and more…

“What are you thinking?” asked Auralee.

“If I was making that much, I could afford to get Chrissy something nice for her birthday,” he said.

“It’s on the twenty-first. You like her, don’t you?”

“As a friend.”

Auralee snickered and rolled her eyes.

“And you said you already have someone for the weekends, right? I could work over there early in the week, and keep working here, right?” The more he considered it, the more attractive the offer was looking. But what if it was too good to be true? What if Auralee was just trying to mess with Christyn at work as part of their age-old feud over a man? And besides, he already knew Christyn was good to him. He had no idea how Auralee was as a manager, and she had an off-putting vibe. He was about to tell her, thanks but no thanks after all, but Christyn, who had at some point emerged from the office, came out of nowhere, plucked the business card out of Auralee’s hand, and tucked it into Damian’s front pocket.

“He’ll think about it and call you,” she said, set down the check, and walked off.

Damian followed her, catching up in three or four strides--she moved fast, but he was still a good deal taller than she was. “Christyn, what’s wrong?” he asked. She looked like she had been crying.

“The restaurant is bankrupt,” she said. “We’re shutting down in two days.”


	7. SIX

**SIX**

There had been a lot of yelling in the office.

Christyn didn’t think she’d ever yelled so much in her life. She knew she’d be catching Jesse’s disapproval. He liked her demure and level-headed in all things.

But how could she help it?

After all she’d done for the Capital.

Who was this mysterious owner to just decide to pull the plug?

Had he looked at the profit margins on her drink specials? At the list she was compiling of all the wines in back storage that weren’t even on the menu, that could make the restaurant so much money if only they advertised them? Hell, Christyn had never even met the man. Who was he to give up when he never even stepped his foot in the door?

But in the end, Chance was just the messenger. There was nothing he could do, and no amount of yelling at him could change that, so she fell to tears.

One by one, she broke the news to her patrons. Roger told her that there might be some room for her at the distillery, and she responded that she’d think about it, only if there was room for her barback, too, and he squirmed in his seat and avoided the subject. Auralee tipsily offered to slash the restaurant owner’s tires. Jesse said, “I’m so sorry, kitten,” but though she was sure he thought he was doing a good job of hiding how pleased he was, he wasn’t, and she just cried harder.

Yes, she knew she would have no trouble finding another job with her resume, and she had enough money saved up to live comfortably in the interim, but what about her little barback? He was doing so well. From a fledgeling with an authority problem, he’d grown into a worker with some promise of surviving this cruel, capitalist hellscape called ‘society,’ but what would happen to him if she wasn’t around to guide him?

She found him in the back, splitting Auralee’s untouched dinner with the dishwasher, and tucked a folded piece of bar printer paper with her phone number on it into his shirt pocket. “What’s this?” he asked, pulling it out.

“That’s me. After we close down, I don’t want to never see you again.”

“You’ll see me again. We still have brunch in the morning,” he promised her.

***

But he didn’t see her in the morning.

Damian was dangerously low on gas, so at the last minute he decided the best thing to do was skip the last two days of work and save what little he had for the trip up to the restaurant to collect his last check.

So he stayed home, smoked the last of his weed, and made himself a couple of toaster waffles for breakfast. Food made him feel better when he was stressed, and right now he was stressed to pieces about finding another job, and about whether that check would cover his bond amount, not to mention what he was going to do about rent. So, he made the rest of the box of toaster waffles and plowed through them even after he ran out of fake maple syrup.

After that, he collapsed back in bed, almost uncomfortably full but not quite at that pain threshold yet...and he didn’t like how good it felt. His stomach was rounded out and straining the drawstring of his sweats, and to his horror, being that stuffed gave him a guilty thrill and a raging boner.

He gave it a minute, but it didn’t look like his erection was going anywhere fast, so, defeated, he took himself out of his pants and began to stroke himself off.

The first thought that came to mind was Christyn. She was sitting on his lap, working his shaft with one hand while forking more waffles dripping with syrup and butter in his mouth with the other, whispering sweetly, I know you have a bit more room in there...come on, eat for me, baby. I want to make you nice and thick. Besides, you’ll need every extra calorie for energy in bed…

He was getting close. He hiked up his shirt and thought to himself how hot it would be to come all over his full gut. Then he thought to himself, What the fuck is wrong with me?

But he was too worked up to stop now, and with a few final strokes he blew his load right in his own face. “MOTHERFUCKER!” he swore at the walls of his empty apartment, squeezing his eyes shut tight against the burn. He stumbled blindly to the bathroom to clean himself up, having to run his eyes directly under the faucet for several minutes before they stopped stinging.

When he checked his phone, he had several missed calls from Chance. That’s right, he’d forgotten to call in. He didn’t really want to talk to Chance, though, so he called Christyn.

“Hi, thank you for calling the Capit--” she began in her customer service soprano, before stopping herself. “Hey, sorry, the phone at my job has been blowing up all day. Anyway, you’ve reached Christyn Brandywine, may I ask who’s calling?”

“It’s Damian.”

“Oh, thank God! When you didn’t show up I thought something terrible had happened to you!”

“Nah, I’m just low on gas. Anyway, how’s work?”

“I just left.”

“But I thought you were on a double?”

“Yeah, I was, until the power went out. I guess the owner didn’t pay the bill. Anyway, we packed all the inventory into boxes, and tomorrow some trucks are coming to pick it up, but Chance said I didn’t have to be there for that.”

Her voice trembled as she spoke. Had she been crying again? Damian didn’t like that. To see the toughest person he know reduced to tears...it didn’t sit right.

“What are you gonna do with the rest of your day?” he asked.

“Cook dinner. Maybe get hammered. I’d ask you to join me, but you’re low on gas.”

“I have a little gas!” he said. “What’s your address?”

She texted it to him; she was only twenty minutes away, on Westheimer and Dunvale, next to the grocery store. “Are you sure I can come over?”

“Yeah, in fact, do you have any food allergies?”

“Don’t worry about it, I just ate. Could use a drink, though.”

“You can eat more than once in a day, you know.” After some prying on her part, he admitted to her that he didn’t have any allergies, but he just really didn’t like onions, and he didn’t know what he liked to drink; he’d only ever had light beer and while he enjoyed the buzz, it tasted how he imagined piss tasted.

“Great, I have a bottle of cognac, you can try that. And I’m probably going to do pasta marinara, because that’s all I have the ingredients for right now. But don’t worry, you won’t be able to taste the onions.”

***

_To whom it concerns,_

_I am writing to recommend Damian Mendez for hire at your establishment as a host, barback, or server. After having had the pleasure of being his supervisor, I can personally speak highly of his work ethic and say with confidence that he would make an asset to your team._

_When I first met Damian, he was working as a host at the Capital Cafe, but it was always clear that he was not one to let his position limit him from taking on additional work outside his station. Damian regularly assisted in tasks such as cleanup of the dining room and bar, and on one occasion volunteered to run errands that required him to leave the workplace, despite having to subject himself to poor weather conditions. After my own promotion to management, I expanded his duties to barbacking, a role which he stepped into not only with marked enthusiasm, but a natural aptitude._

_Though my time on the clock with Damian has been cut short by the shutdown of the Capital, I sincerely believe in the future of his career in the restaurant industry. I will be lucky if I ever again have the privilege of supervising another employee with his level of versatility, his willingness to do whatever it takes to get the job done, and, most importantly, his rare understanding of what it truly means to be a team player._

_Feel free to contact me directly if you have any questions about Damian’s performance._

_Thank you for your time, and best regards,_

_Chris Brandywine_

_Bar Manager, Capital Cafe_

She had enclosed her contact information in the letter and printed copies in triplicate on company letterhead in Chance’s office. She would have printed more, but the power went out. She had been planning to have Chance mail them to Damian along with his last check, but she was glad Damian had taken up her offer for dinner, so she could give them to him in person.

At around 6:20, he called her. “Hey, I just pulled up, you said you were in 1205, where’s that at?”

“It’s in the back, here, let me come out.” She walked out into the driveway and said into the receiver, “I’m standing right in front of my unit, can you see me?”

“I don’t, but maybe if you turn location on I can figure out where you’re at. Do you have your phone?”

Did she have her…? She took a deep breath. “Damian, I want you to ask me that question again, and really think about it this time.”

At last, she spotted him, walking towards her on the sidewalk near the mailboxes. She jogged to meet him halfway. “How are you holding up?” From the looks of it, he wasn’t great. His hair was a mess, he looked like he had either slept all day or not gotten any sleep at all since the news broke about the Capital, and as for his attire--well, Christyn was used to seeing him dressed up nice for work, so it threw her a bit to see him in the sort of plain white shirt one might sleep in, along with orange pants which, upon further observation, had a number printed on them. “Oh God, are those your jail pants?”

“Yeah...they let me walk out in them, since when I was arrested, I, uh...didn’t have my pants on.”

“Good Lord, why not?”

“I was at home, okay? I didn’t know they were coming that day.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, come on inside. Be warned, though, my apartment looks like an alcoholic lives in there.”

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “Just looks like?”

“Oh, shut up, I’ve been doing good.” Indeed, she now had no problem going bone-dry all day and could probably go longer if she wanted to, but lately she’d been allowing herself leniency whenever the urge did strike her to drink. The withdrawals were gone now; drinking was no longer a physiological need for her so much as a reward for having to deal with such a tremendous amount of stress in the workplace lately.

She led him inside, feeling a little self-conscious about the mess. “Go ahead and keep your shoes on; the carpet’s filthy. I’d clean it, but my lease expires in a few months here so I figured I’ll just start over fresh wherever I end up.” She watched him look around the place, eyes darting.

“I thought you had cats.”

That’s right, she recalled, she had told him that to explain the gash in her cheek that one day at work. “I had cats over, for that week. I was watching them for a friend when she went out of town.”

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing up at the large metal hook in the ceiling from which Jesse sometimes liked to suspend her in chains by the wrists, or once, by a cord attached to a collar around her throat.

“I was thinking about hanging a disco ball. I never went through with it.”

He seemed to accept this explanation. Dinner was almost ready, and while she waited for the noodles to get soft enough, she poured them each a glass of water and two fingers of cognac. He chucked his measure back, coughing and bending double. “Fuck me, that actually hurt! You drink this shit?”

“You’re supposed to sip it, not shoot it, you dolt,” she said, sipping from her own glass. It was very good cognac; she would have to send Roger her compliments. Nevertheless, as she served dinner, she fixed him a drink she thought he might find more palatable, muddling some strawberries she had onhand into the bottom of a highball glass and topping off the cognac with ice and ginger ale.

She left the pot of spaghetti in the middle of the coffee table, and he sat down in one of her chairs and fixed himself a small serving while she helped herself and finished her first drink. She watched as he took a bite experimentally, nodded, and loaded himself up with a big, heaping plate full. “You’re right, I can’t taste the onions. This is actually really good!” She took it as a compliment when he cleaned his plate--and emptied his drink. “Can I have another one of these?”

“How do you feel? Are you buzzed? I don’t want you getting drunk; you took your own car here, didn’t you?”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve drank loads of times before! Don’t worry so much,” he said, so she made him one more drink. “So what do you even do around here, without TV?” he asked.

“I’ve always been the kind of person who more or less lives at work and visits home sometimes,” she said.

“What are you going to do for work now? Or are you gonna take some time off and hang out with Jesse?”

“No, I need a job.”

“Why? He seems well off, and you’ve got twenty stacks in the bank.”

“It’s complicated.” That’s all she said; she didn’t want to dive into the matter of Jesse wanting her to quit serving, and how she felt like if she did, she’d be giving up a part of her identity. There were times when the idea of relinquishing her identity was attractive, she would admit. Her past could be a burden to bear, and sometimes becoming Master’s empty-headed little house slave sounded a lot like an escape. But then she wouldn’t get to enjoy the little things, like crass gossip in Spanish in the work kitchen, or the familiar satisfying burn in her calves after a long and lucrative shift, or getting to see her friends--her friends, not the suit-wearing crowd of intellectuals and professionals Jesse would parade her before, who had nothing in common with her.

“I have a couple of interviews lined up. One at the Sapphire Lounge and another at this place called McCarthy’s,” she said to change the subject slightly. “If either of them takes me, I’ll put in a good word for you. Oh! I almost forgot!” She retrieved the letter of recommendation she had written for him from the counter and handed it to him. “Show this to the hiring manager of wherever you decide to apply to.”

She refilled her glass as he read the letter over. “This is...really nice of you, Christyn,” he said, but didn’t smile. “I just might not need it.”

“That’s right, don’t you have a job offer from Auralee on the table?” she remembered. “I imagine it’s daunting to think about having the wicked witch from Hansel and Gretel as a bar manager, but if you take the job, you’ll be making beaucoup money!”

“It's not that.” He finished his drink and set down his glass. “There’s something I wanted to tell you, but I’m way too sober to do it still.”

“Alright, fine,” she said, “but will you have a little dessert with me, too? The chef let me take home the greater part of a strawberry rhubarb pie, and I’ve been dying to try it all day!” She hoped getting a little more food in his stomach would keep him from getting too wasted, and thankfully, he acquiesced.

“Sure, strawberry’s my favorite.” There was still something off about his demeanor. She made his next drink and left to go to the kitchen, hoping he’d share whatever was troubling him once he finished that one.

She gave the pie a quick reheat in the oven and came back with two slices on plates with spoons. He was finished with his drink by that time, but to her relief, inhaled his serving in just a few bites. She smiled, once again taking his appetite as a compliment on her service. “It’s funny,” she said, “but I bet you could actually outeat my boyfriend.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s amazing to me that he maintains such an imposing frame; I’ve never actually seen him overeat. He likes to maintain control in all things,” she explained.

“Me, I just eat when I’m stressed.”

“Oh, and what has you stressed?”

“I’m going back to jail.” He leaned forward to set his empty plate on the table and in the process, fell out of his chair.

“Oh my goodness!” Christyn was on her knees at his side in an instant, helping him upright and propping him against the wall. “How are you already this drunk?”

“I poured extra liquor in that drink while you were in the kitchen,” he confessed.

“Christyn, I’m so sorry,” he said.

Said, “I didn’t mean to, but I ran on a PR bond.”

Said, “This is probably the last time I’m ever gonna see you.”

“Damian, slow down! Breathe!” She rubbed his arm and bit by bit, got him to explain his situation with the court, how he’d missed his court date and was now responsible for a bond amount that he didn’t think he could pay before the deadline. He was near tears now, and so was she.

“You’ll see me again, I promise!” she said. “And I have a confession, too.”

“What?”

“I’ve been brainwashing you.”

He looked at her with a confused expression. He didn’t seem upset...just surprised. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to lose you again!” she said. “When you went to jail, I missed you so much. I thought if I could get you to just be a good worker and stay out of trouble, nothing like that would ever happen again. So, I started building a rapport with you. I went out of my way to be especially nice to you, while at the same time stepping into the role of your boss so that you’d get conditioned to like doing whatever I told you to. I used subtle nonverbal cues to get you to stop popping pills on my clock...it’s the same kind of thing Jesse does to me, only, I didn’t have any sexual motives with you, I just wanted to keep you in a job.”

“Wait, your boyfriend’s brainwashing you?”

She flushed. “We kind of have this BDSM thing going on. He likes me to call him Master...I know it’s weird.” She reached over to the table and poured herself just a smidge more cognac. “But enough about my sex life, just tell me: how much money do you need?”

“No, I can’t take money from you.”

“I have twenty thousand dollars, Damian. And it’s for emergencies like this that I keep so much onhand!”

“But what if you have an emergency? What if one of these days you need to buy yourself a new liver?”

“Let’s worry about my emergencies when they come. Besides, your emergency is my emergency. You’re my best friend.”

He sniffled. “Not the lady from the bowling alley?”

“Just tell me how much you need.”

The cost to cover his bond amount plus his remaining unpaid tickets came out to a little under one and a half grand. With some prodding, she managed to get his bank account information out of him, and she wired him the money directly from her phone. “There, now, that wasn’t so painful, was it?”

“I’ll pay you back as soon as I can,” he promised.

“Don’t even worry about that.”

“I should probably go,” he said, staggering to his feet. “I feel like I wrecked your night now, and I’ve cost you more than my life is worth. But thanks for dinner.” He was out the door before Christyn could stand.

She ran out after him to try and reason with him. “You should probably stay, at least for a few hours. You just fell out of your chair. There’s no way you’re good to drive!”

“I’m fine, Christyn, really. I drive stoned all the time.”

“Yeah, and the last time, you got a DUI. What good is it that I just paid your legal fees if you end up with another one?”

“I’ll make it back, don’t you believe in me?”

She did not believe in him, especially as he stumbled in the direction of his car, keys in hand. But if he wasn’t going to listen to reason, she was going to have to do things the hard way.

She tackled him in the lawn and he went down easy, struggling to get on his back underneath her so he could try and push her off. He wasn’t having an easy time; she probably had several pounds on him, and she wasn’t letting up. They fought over the keys as she straddled him, and she might have gotten them out of his hand, too, if she hadn’t noticed something stiff pressing insistently into her inner thigh…

“Oh my God, do you have a boner?”

In the moment that she was distracted, he gave her the slip, making it up to his feet and across the parking lot. By the time she got up and caught up to him, he had already keyed the ignition, red with embarrassment and all the more in a rush to leave the situation. “Damian, wait!”

His window was rolled halfway down, and she hooked her elbow inside it while placing her foot stubbornly behind his front driver’s side tire. “Move, Christyn.”

“Not until you listen to me!”

He put the car in reverse as if trying to force her to move, but she stood her ground.

“I know you don’t want to hurt me,” she said, dropping her voice low and staring him straight in his eyes. His expression changed, his gaze opening up suddenly, as if he was becoming receptive, but he still showed no signs of going back on his decision to drive.

It was time, then, to resort to drastic measures.

Jesse had this parlor trick he liked to do where he would talk her into a trance, often in public. Lulled into a dreamlike state, she would be amenable to his every request, most of them harmless and for his amusement--he’d make her meow like a kitten or freeze in her seat at a restaurant holding her drink a few inches off the table. She had been through the motions enough times to know what to say, and if she could pull it off, she could keep Damian from endangering himself on the road tonight.

Still maintaining steady eye contact, she said in the same instructive tones she used when training him as her barback at the restaurant, “Now, listen to me closely.”

“I--”

“You don’t need to say anything. Just listen. Focus on the tone and tempo of my voice and let my words occupy your thoughts. You can feel yourself start to enter a hazy, complacent state of mind, can’t you?”

“Yes, Boss,” he murmered.

“That’s good. Now I want you to settle deeper and deeper into that pleasant, obedient mindset. Bit by bit, let me occupy you until you feel your mind resting in my control and your body surrender automatically to my commands. Focus on how good and relaxing it feels to let yourself obey me. Let go, and let me have you to do with you as I wish, knowing I will protect you.” As she spoke, she slowed the pace of her words and let her pitch rise up to a honey-sweet soprano. She noticed his breathing had slowed, and his eyes were trained hard on hers and nothing else. “How do you feel?”

“Relaxed.”

“Gooood,” she drew out the word. “And what do you want to do?”

“Obey.”

“Very, very good, my star employee. Now, you are fully under my command. You will comply to my orders, and you will be released from this state when I snap my fingers and say the words, ‘return to me.’ When I release you, you will regain full control of your actions, but you won’t want to drive again until you reach a full state of sobriety. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“Repeat the words that will lift you from your trance.”

“Return to me.”

“Good boy, Damian! Now, with your foot still on the brake, I want you to put the car in park.” He did as he was told, and she smiled. “Good! Now exit the car and hand me the keys.” She stepped back so he could get out, and when she held out her hand, he dropped the keys into it. “You’re very good at this. Now, follow me back inside.” She led the way into her apartment and helped him sit down on the bed before snapping her fingers. “Return to me, Damian.”

He shook his head and blinked. “How did you--?”

“I don’t know, I’m still figuring it out,” she said. “How do you feel?”

“Okay...still a little drunk, though. Can I crash here for the night?”

“Mi casa es su casa, mi amor.” She got him a glass of water and a blanket, helped him get all layed down and comfortable, and, like a gentleman, took the floor.

As he gave in to sleep, she couldn’t help but give him a small platonic peck on the cheek. Just as former work buddies. It wasn’t like she was falling for him or anything.


	8. SEVEN

Part 2. A Sign of the Times

**SEVEN**

In the morning, Christyn made pancakes from scratch. Damian seemed to thoroughly enjoy them, but he didn’t attack them with such a ferocious urgency like the previous night. He looked more carefree than ever as he helped her clean the kitchen and do the dishes. “Thanks for what you did for me,” he said. “Before you offered to pay the bond, I was thinking, maybe I should just serve my time, maybe I’d learn my lesson if I did. But I really didn’t want to do that.”

“I could tell.” He had looked so sad and scared to be returning to jail, and to her, $1500 was a small price to pay to save him from going through that again. She would have given anything. She’d been prepared to give up the use of her right foot. “Hey, I was serious about you applying wherever I get hired. I’d like to work with you again. Unless you’d like to work with Auralee.”

“I’d like to work with you, too,” he said. “Promise me one thing, though: no more brainwashing.”

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I really shouldn’t have done that to you without your permission.”

“I think you had my permission.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Remember when we first met? You gave me an agreement that we’d have each other’s backs, and I shook your hand on it. You were only trying to help me, and I guess if I didn’t want to get literally brainwashed, I should have been more specific about what kind of help you could give me. I’m not mad at you, but I do really want to get my shit together, and I want to know it’s me doing it on my own, not just because you’re pulling the strings.”

She smiled. “That’s very mature of you, Damian. And I got you. I’ll still always have your back, but from now on, I’ll stay out of your head.” She reached out a hand to shake.

“Imma hold you to it,” he said, and met her halfway.

On his way out, he offered to take out the trash. “Thanks, bud. Hey, text me when you get home. We can workshop your resume over the phone.”

Shortly after he left, she changed clothes, did her makeup and hair, and headed out into the parking lot, intending to go to the print shop and print copies of her resume, food handler’s permit, and TABC certification for the upcoming job hunt. Jesse was waiting for her outside with his car. “Master, what a pleasant surprise!” she said, trying hard not to let her voice tremble. How long had he been here? Had he seen Damian leave her apartment? He had to know she would never dream of straying from him. But if she were in his shoes, she might be beginning to get suspicious.

“You don’t sound happy, kitten. I would have guessed you for a slave who likes surprises. After all, you sure are full of them. It seems you’ve now graduated to brainwashing your coworkers, hmm?”

“Did...did you exchange words with Damian just now?”

“No, kitten, in fact, I don’t believe he noticed me. But I did see you trance him by the side of his car last night.”

Had he been here all night?

The blow from his backhand came unexpectedly and almost took her off her feet. Tears stung her eyes. Normally, when Jesse wanted to play rough, he gave her some forewarning so she could brace herself. But this time, she had clearly displeased him, and he hadn’t even bothered to tell her what she was being punished for!

“I swear, Master, nothing happened!” she cried. “Damian’s just my friend! We slept separately! I only tranced him so he wouldn’t drive drunk!”

“And you put my property in danger! What were you thinking, stepping behind his wheel?!”

“I w-was thinking that I wanted to stop him from h-hurting anybody out there...or himself...because...I was t-trying to be a good girl...good girls don’t send drunk drivers out on the road...r-right?”

Jesse glared at her for a long moment. Finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “This is just as much my fault as yours. True, you should have consulted me before taking up the task of attempting hypnosis. Your work is sloppy, my pet, and needs refinement. But I should have suspected you would eventually pick up on my techniques and try to use them yourself. Let’s go inside, kitten. I’m going to teach you the proper fundamentals of neurolinguistic programming.”

***

Damian was applying for jobs online when the text from Christyn hit his phone:

I’M HIRED!

Thrilled for her, he banged out a response:

Awesome! Where at?

She called him and he fumbled to answer. When he picked up, she was breathless on the other end of the line. “You know that fancy steakhouse, McCarthy’s?”

“No way! I heard celebrities eat there!”

“Yeah! And I looked at their menu; tabs could easily exceed $100 for even a two-top! I’m gonna be rolling in it, just you wait!”

“You’re already rolling in it. And once I pay you back this $1500--”

“Don’t even worry about it. Hey, we should celebrate!”

“You and me?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, I just thought you might want to celebrate with your boyfriend.”

“We celebrated already. Now I want to do something with my best friend. How about lunch? I’ll buy.”

***

Christyn’s car was already in the parking lot when Damian arrived at the restaurant to which she’d texted him the address. It was a quiet little French cafe in the middle of a suburban neighborhood with string lights on the patio; not terribly fancy, but nice enough to make him feel out of place. He would have dressed nicer, but he hadn’t wanted to make it seem like he expected it to be a date.

“Hey, I’m meeting a friend here,” he told the hostess as he stepped inside. “Oh, there she is right there,” he spotted her through the window at an outside table in the back. The hostess waved him past, and Christyn looked up and smiled at him as he joined her.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” With the help of some makeup, Christyn had managed to mostly hide a fresh bruise under her right eye, but Damian could still tell it was there.

“I’m fine, I think I’m just having an allergic reaction to this new makeup I tried out...it’s not too noticeable, is it?"

“So that’s what that is. No, it’s not too bad.” He claimed a seat, and after a bit of smalltalk, she confessed to having an ulterior motive to inviting him out, besides bragging about her new job.

“Jesse found out what I’d been doing at the restaurant, so he decided to run me through the basics of neurolinguistic programming; I guess he thinks my technique could use some refinement. So, I thought I would impart my new knowledge on you, since you were so adamant about the no-more-brainwashing thing. I was afraid it was going to be difficult for you to follow the conversation over the phone, so I wanted to get together.”

It was difficult for him to follow it now. “Neuro...I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

“Neuro, meaning ‘brain,’” she began to break it down for him. “Linguistic, meaning ‘language,’ and programming, meaning, well, programming. Put it all together and what do you got? A means to make people do what you want them to, using only what you say. In short: rudimentary brainwashing.”

He blinked. “You want to teach me how to brainwash people?”

“I want to teach you how it works, so you won’t be as susceptible to future attacks. A lot of people do it without knowing they’re doing it; managers are some of the biggest culprits. Shall we begin?”

“Sure.” He took one of the waters on the table and took a small sip. He wished there were something other than water available; he was strapped for cash, and, as such, hadn’t eaten in a while.

“The first rule of neurolinguistic programming is: you can’t make anyone do what they don’t want to do. When I say that, what does it make you think? Do you interpret that as a physical law, or a moral one?”

“Moral,” he said at once. “Just like you can make an animal do tricks, you can make a person do things they wouldn’t do if you bribe them or torture them.”

“Good, good, you’re on the right track. But I’m not talking about torture. I never tortured you, did I?”

Yes. Only by looking so good and being taken.

“Mull this around for a second: ‘That which cannot break, must bend. That which will not bend, must break.”

“So you can break the rule?”

“Precisely! You can’t make anyone do what they don’t want to do…”

“But you can make them want to do it,” he finished for her.

“Now you’re getting it!” she nodded. “Rule number two: the law of social compliance. By and large, we’re all conditioned to be more inclined to do what someone asks so long as they ask nicely. Example given: in our industry, who do you think gets their drinks in the well first; the server who prebusses the bar and asks the bartender if they need any help on the regular, then gently reminds them of the drink ticket, or the server who screams over the counter at them?”

“Be nice, got it. Seems like it should be common sense.”

“Should being the operative word. Three: the law of approximation. If you can’t get someone to do the big thing you want them to do, get them there in smaller steps. Reward them along the way.”

“Like with free food and tipout and promotions?”

She winced. “You can’t begin to fathom how sorry I still am that I wasn’t upfront with you.”

“I already told you I’m not mad,” he said. “One day we’ll look back on everything that happened at the Capital and laugh.” Maybe they’d be married. It was unlikely, but a lot could happen in a few years.

“Alright, the fourth and final rule of NLP is the law of repetition and mantra. This is what makes us restaurant workers particularly easy marks for brainwashing. We do the same sidework every day, we say the same things at our tables. We change jobs frequently, and it makes us susceptible to having our routines changed for each new workplace, which makes us vulnerable to having our routines altered by anyone who decides they want to. If you control someone’s routine, you can obtain obedience without a second thought. Now, repeat the rules for me, so I know you have them down.”

He did, making it through three and a half repetitions before the waitress came to check on them. “Now order me a virgin mimosa and whatever you want to drink.”

“Can I get a virgin mimosa for the lady, and I’ll have a sweet tea with two creams in it,” he said mindlessly. The waitress gave him a funny look.

“So she just wants orange juice?”

What had he just said? A ‘virgin mimosa’? He looked at Christyn, mortified, and she smirked. “Behold, the power of repetition and mantra!”

“Shit, so this NLP stuff really does work.” Of course, he ought to know by now.

When his drink came, he sucked it down deeply through the straw, almost collapsing from the pleasure of the sudden rush of sugar. “You alright there?” asked Christyn.

“I was just thirsty.”

“Are you hungry?”

God, he was hungry. So hungry it had been an ordeal trying to think straight through their whole conversation. “I mean, I could eat.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“At your house.”

“But that was three days ago! Damian!”

Fuck! Something about the way she whined his name.

She raised a hand to flag the waitress down so they could order. “What do you want? Do you like salmon?”

“Yeah, I like it a lot, but--”

But it was the most expensive thing on the menu, and he didn’t want to make her spend too much on him after all she had already done. Nevertheless, when the waitress came, she declared, “He’ll have the beurre-blanc salmon, medium, with mash and broccolini, and I’ll do the quiche florentine.”

As the waitress walked away, Damian shrunk against the back of his seat. “You don’t need to worry about me like this. You survived being homeless; I’m sure I can get through this little broke spell between jobs.”

“Yes, I was homeless, but I kept myself fed.”

“How?”

“If you look for pennies all day, eventually you’ll find ramen,” she said. “But I want more than that for you.”

In his starved and half-delirious state, he almost thought she’d said, I want there to be more of you. He imagined her spoon-feeding him until his stomach was full and rounded out to the point where his pants wouldn’t close, then rubbing it in slow circles and promising to stuff him even more next time before she mounted him into her wet hot pussy and--

Fuck his life! Why was he thinking that?

When the food came, he couldn’t help himself from attacking his meal, cutting into the salmon with his fork and nudging some mashed potatoes onto the same bite with the knife so he could taste both at once. Then he went in for some of the vegetables, then back to the salmon and potatoes, over and over in desperate silence, once in a while looking up at Christyn. Her beautiful brown eyes were fixed on his even as she enjoyed her own meal, seeming to give him permission. “That’s it, Damian, eat up! You need your fuel if you’re going to focus on your job hunt.”

Once he cleaned his plate, he felt refreshed and much better. She offered to order dessert, but he was afraid if he got too full in front of her, he’d spring a boner at the table and have some explaining to do. (Why was he like this, why was he like this, why was he fucking like this?)

As they parted ways in the parking lot, she made him promise to keep her posted on his progress.

“Progress?”

“On getting a job! And if you don’t find anything in the next few days, please, call me! I’ll take you to the grocery store. I can’t let you starve.”


	9. EIGHT

**EIGHT**

The Original McCarthy’s on Bunker Hill was a 20-minute, beautifully woodsy drive from Christyn’s apartment. She arrived fifteen minutes early for her first training shift, parking in the back where she’d been instructed to park and entering through the kitchen. “Good to see you ready to work!” said the owner, old Mac McCarthy, coming up to her to shake her hand. She had passed her interview with him with flying colors, and his smile told her he remembered her fondly against a sea of applicants. Four other people had walked in looking for work that afternoon, but she was the only one he had offered a server position to on the spot. She was a little disheartened to be returning to waiting tables after having so much fun behind the bar at the Capital, but hopefully if she impressed him, she would soon be promoted.

He handed her a white kitchen apron. “This is for you, for now. I’ll hunt down one of the black waitstaff ones and give it to you before training ends.”

Ah, the work apron: the submissive collar of the working-class world.

“You’ll also be taking a menu test at the end of the week,” old Mac went on.

“Actually, I’m ready for the test now,” said Christyn. She had studied up well into the wee hours of the night, and she wanted to get it over with while the material was still fresh on her mind. 

“Well, I don’t have one printed right now, but I can give it to you at the end of your shift today.”

“Wonderful! In the meantime, is there anything I can do before everyone else comes in?”

“My my, you are quite the eager young worker bee! If you really want to, I guess you can polish the bread pans. They’re on the shelf under the oven behind the bar. You’ll see it as soon as you step out of the kitchen.”

The round bar was the centerpiece of the restaurant floor, an impressive stone oven burning warm at its back end. Christyn stepped behind the bar, found a towel, and set to work, rubbing down each of the rectangular metal pans and setting them aside before giving the shelf a quick dusting and finally popping back up to sweep all the crumbs off the floor with a broom. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the bread station look so spotless,” said a new voice behind her.

She turned around to face its owner, a dark-haired, aquamarine-eyed boy who couldn’t be much older than the drinking age, if he was even there yet. For a male, he was rather petite, even if he did have one or two inches on Christyn’s height, with a slim, compact frame filled out by the slightest visible hint of muscle definition. “You must be the new girl. Christyn, right?”

“You said it right!”

“What’s the note of surprise for? Anyone should be able to get it right if they try. I’m Shane; since I’m shift lead today, I’m going to be your trainer.”

When he extended a hand to shake, she took it firmly, but replied with a giggle and a low, “Enchante,” which somehow felt right.

“Well, let’s get you dressed, and then we can start shaking things up!” he declared, picking up the apron she’d been keeping on the bar-top. He folded it in half so the top part wouldn’t show and wrapped it around her natural waist, tying it in the front tighter than she might have liked, but not impedingly so. “Fabulous! Girl, you look like a thousand bucks, which is what you’ll make in your first three days out of training if you follow my lead and follow it well. We’re in section 5 today, which means we have tables 31 thru 35. Do you have your copy of the floor map on you?”

“It’s up here, Captain,” she said, tapping her right temple. “We have the three booths opposite the bar, the round high-top in the happy hour section, and the high-top booth by the back patio door.”

“Color me impressed!” said Shane, nudging her in the arm with his elbow. “Now, Section 5 always refills the sugar bowls for opening sidework. I’ve already knocked that out, but follow me.” He led her to the back of the restaurant, where in the entrance to the dish pit, a chart hung on the wall indicating each server’s duties by section. “If you ever forget what your opening duties are, this is the place to look. Now, if you want to follow me, I’ll show you where we keep the sugars.” She fell into line behind him up a flight of stairs and into a spacious supply closet. “So here are the sugars,” he said, pointing to the boxes of sugar and sweetener packets on a shelf right at her eye level. “While we’re here, here are our to-go cups...boxes...catering supplies...peppermints…” He pointed out each object’s location in turn before unpocketing a small, oval-shaped device and taking a long pull. “This is also a great place to take your vape-break. No cameras, see?”

“What if I smoke real cigarettes?”

“Staircase on the other side of this floor takes you straight to the roof. Now come downstairs, pre-shift starts in five minutes!”

She followed him back down the way they had come. As they passed the host stand, he took two leather-bound booklets from on top of it and handed one to her. She opened it up and skimmed its contents:

_Daily Specials_

_Appetizer: Shrimp and Crab Fondue with Garlic Crostini_

_Lunch: Hanger Steak Salad featuring Romaine Lettuce, Sun Dried Tomatoes, Lightly Roasted Pepperoncini, Smoked Gouda, and House Made Garlic Croutons tossed in a Poblano Cream Dressing_

_Dessert: White Chocolate and Strawberry Mousse Cake_

She had said to old Mac during her interview, I feel like I would be spoiled as a server here. Your gorgeous menu sells itself! His specials would definitely live up to her suck-uppery, if they were as delicious as they sounded.

Pre-shift was quick and to-the-point. Old Mac told the servers to sell the specials and push bottles of a new French chardonnay they’d just gotten in. At the end of the meeting, he put his hand on her shoulder and said, “This is Christyn, the newest member of the McCarthy’s family. Christyn, why don’t you stand up and tell us a bit about yourself?”

“Well, I’ve been in foodservice since I was sixteen, and I’m twenty-five as of a few days ago. I’m from Beaumont, I’m a middle child between two brothers…” Cousins, but she had grown up with them like brothers. “And my favorite color is black.”

The other servers welcomed her with a chorus of hellos and nice-to-meet-yous, but though she mingled a bit and shook a few hands, she never strayed too far from her trainer.

Soon, the shift was in full swing, and Shane was sat with his first party of four at table 32. “Hi, welcome back to McCarthy’s,” said Shane with an obvious familiarity, setting a daily special list on top of each pre-set bread plate. “In case any of you don’t remember, my name’s Shane, and this is Christyn, my trainee for the day. We’ll both be taking care of you. Now, would you like us to get you some glasses of water while you take a look at our wine and cocktail lists?”

“Actually, I’ll stick to unsweet tea. No lemon,” said one woman.

“Iced tea and water for me.”

“Pinot grigio, whatever the house is, I’ll just take a glass.”

“Water, no ice, with three lemons, please.”

“Thank you guys! I’ll get all that for you in just a moment, but before I walk off I wanted to tell you a bit about the specials…”

While Shane was talking, Christyn dipped into the kitchen and built the drink order--well, everything except for the wine, which he would have to ring in. She set it on the table before he even left, and he looked at her with a stunned gratitude before turning back to his guests. “Before I go and grab that wine, are there any appetizers I can get you started with?”

“Yeah, let’s do the shrimp and crab dip,” said the man who had ordered water and tea. “You guys want anything else?”

“Can we get the lobster potstickers as well?” said the woman who was drinking water without ice.

“Right away! I’ll go put that in for you, and if you need anything before your appetizer arrives, or if you find yourselves ready to order mains, don’t hesitate to flag me down. You can raise your hand, yell my name, make a dinosaur noise, whatever you feel like doing in the moment. Now, if that’s all you need for now, I’ll see you in a few minutes!”

That ‘dinosaur noise’ line earned him a round of laughter from the table and Christyn. “How do you come up with this stuff?” she asked as they walked away from the table.

“Well, I have to get up pretty early in the morning, but it’s well worth it. The guests tend to thank me financially for my tableside humor.”

Before long, their section was filled, and Shane had to take more tables on the patio, which was being rotated, as regulars came in and requested him by name. His work began to take a frantic pace as he became overwhelmed with covers, but nevertheless, he did his best to teach Chrystin her way through the menu on the computer and quiz her on the contents of each dish. In turn, she made sure his tables had bread before their meals, were neatly prebussed, and his guests’ waters and soft drinks stayed full.

After an afternoon of doing for Shane what Damian had done for her at the Capital, Christyn was flagging. As the 2 PM lull set in, he noticed her exhaustion and said, “Honey, are you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

“Yes,” she replied, a little short of breath. She had eaten a good breakfast at home of a poached egg on buttered toast with some salsa, but that had been at 7:45, and the workload had been fast-paced and exhausting.

“Aw, sweetie, come here. Take a seat.” He put an arm around her shoulders and guided her to the yet-today unused private dining room upstairs. “What do you drink?” he asked, sitting her down in a booth.

“Lemon-lime soda.”

“Do you want ice?”

“Don’t need it.”

He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with her drink and a plate of of the freshly baked focaccia bread that came complimentary to tables, along with a ramekin of whipped herb butter. As she drank, he spread a thin layer of butter onto a piece of bread and held it to her lips. “Eat this, honey, it will help revitalize you.”

This was a huge exercise in trust; Christyn would have to take it on blind faith that Shane's hands were clean. (At her lowest point, she’d eaten out of the garbage to survive, but that was years ago and it wasn’t an experience she looked back on with any fondness.) But he had been so nice to her, and she had a sense that he wouldn't let her come to any harm. She took a bite from his hand, then another, sighing in relief as the bread settled her stomach. The butter was deliciously spiced, and she let herself relax in the booth as she enjoyed the flavor. “If the bread here is this good, I can only imagine how good the food is that people are actually paying for,” she said.

“You can see for yourself once we get cut. At five, the dinner shift comes in, we’ll be off, and since you’re training and I’m training you, we both get to order whatever we want from the menu. We do a great porterhouse here.”

“Duly noted. I’ll probably just get some of that broccoli cheddar soup, though. I’m a vegetarian.”

“That’s good! It's better for your health anyway, and now that you’ve made the switch you can probably expect to lose a few L-B’s!” he said brightly. She knew he meant well, but she had to laugh.

“I’ve been a vegetarian for six years.”

“Oh.” His eyes widened and his hand rose to cover his mouth. “Oh,” he said again, his face paling with guilt.

“It’s really not a big deal,” she said.

“But I just--”

“Implied I was fat? So what? So did the last doctor I went to see, although I don’t know what that had to do with the case of strep throat I went in for.” Despite having the sort of curvy body type, with prominent breasts, powerful thighs, and a round derriere that made her tummy look small in comparison, that made her attractive to most men she encountered, she was technically a few pounds overweight in the eyes of the medical community. Nevertheless, the extra weight had never bothered her, nor had the comments it occasionally brought on, mostly unsolicited diet advice from other women. There were too many important things to focus on besides trying to fit society’s thin-normative ideal. Most days, unless she was in pain, she was barely cognizant of the fact that she had a body in the first place. There was simply too much work to be done to think about it. “I promise, I take no offense. I just think it’s funny that you’re talking about weight loss while hand-feeding me buttered bread.”

“We’ve been on the clock too long to go without a little carbs in our systems,” he said, taking a piece of bread himself. “Let’s take another five, and when we go back downstairs, I want you to start running service.”

“Already?”

“You’re killing it on the floor, and I appreciate all the help you’re giving me, but you’re not training to be a backserver. I want you to be familiar with the clientele so that when they release you from training, you’ll feel at ease taking your own tables. What do you say?”

“If you think I’m ready, Captain.”

Christyn didn’t have Shane’s charm on the floor, but she was a good deal quicker, so when he yielded half his section to her, the tables she took wanted for no refills of drinks or condiments. When her guests’ entrees arrived, she took a step back, watching them from a distance to gauge their levels of satisfaction, occasionally swinging by with a casual, “How’s lunch?” in contrast with Shane’s habit of getting roped into long conversations. She could see how his personable nature made him well-liked and memorable among the regular crowd; she could also see how it got him in the weeds. To relieve some of the pressure, she stocked a stash of steak knives in a cabinet near their section so they wouldn’t be running back and forth from the mise-en-place station in the back of the dining room. She advised him to keep one or two extra check presenters in his apron pocket so he wouldn’t be looking around for one when one of his tables asked to tab out. At the end of her shift, she sat down in a booth upstairs with a bowl of soup and another plate of bread and took her menu test, which she aced with flying colors. Shane counted out $50 from the day’s tips and handed it to her. She had worked in tipped-out positions before, but she’d never been tipped out as a trainee. “This is too much,” she insisted, trying to push $40 back on him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you were a great help today.”

“I’ll take $20 at the most.”

He was having no negotiation. “Shut up or I’ll give you fucking more.”

***

McCarthy’s Steakhouse on Washington Avenue was the biggest restaurant Damian had ever set foot in. He had come in intending to pick up a job application in the hopes of joining Christyn at her new workplace, but even though she had told him over text that she was currently at work, he didn’t see any sign of her. Then again, this was a big place, with doorways leading to what he assumed were back rooms, and a second floor up top framed by an impossibly high ceiling from which hung a giant crystal chandelier…

And she could be anywhere.

Or maybe he had the wrong place.

She had said McCarthy’s, right?

He was standing in the front for a minute before the hostess returned from seating a table, only for the phone to ring. She picked it up, giving Damian an apologetic look. “Thank you for calling McCarthy’s on Washington, this is Heather, how can I help you?” She placed her hand over the receiver and mouthed that it was open seating at the bar.

He helped himself to a stool, and the bartender was quick to take notice of him. “Hel-lo! I haven’t seen you in here before.” Small and slim but quite muscular, she had dark hair tied in a low ponytail that reached her mid-back and a devious look in her amber eyes. Damian guessed she was somewhere in her early twenties, Hispanic by the looks of her.

“First time,” he said.

“What’s your name, then, hotshot?”

“Damian.”

“Mucho gusto, me llamo Estrella.”

“Sorry.” He winced. “I don’t know any Spanish.”

“My name,” she said, “is Estrella.”

He fumbled over the syllables a few times unsuccessfully before she said, “You can call me Stella if you want. Everyone does.”

“Stella, then.”

“So, Damian, what do you want to drink?”

“I, uh...don’t have any money,” he admitted.

“I can cover you...it’s happy hour, and wells and martinis are five bucks.” She took out a $5 bill and put it in the register.

He hated to take charity from a total stranger, but since she insisted… “Can you make me something sweet?”

“Can I?” A few shakes of a martini shaker later, she was setting a drink before him in a stemmed glass, full to the brim and rimmed with sugar. He took a sip and found it delicious. He had asked for sweet, and that was exactly what he got. It might have been too sweet any other day, but he was hungry from being out of work. He’d had a little to eat the other day when his neighbor had smoked him out and provided snacks, but his last substantial meal had been with Christyn, and he had too much pride to admit to her he needed more help. He was avoiding his reflection; whenever he went hungry he started to thin out in the face first, and mirrors only reminded him of his miserable circumstance. But the sugar rush from the drink was helping.

“What is this?”

“You never had a lemon drop martini before?”

“Of course I have!” he said, not wanting to give away his age. “Yours is just the best one I’ve ever dranken before!”

“Aww, don’t flatter me. On second thought, I liked that. Keep flattering me!”

“Well, for starts, that’s a great outfit.”

Being in uniform, Stella fixed him with a deadpan look that indicated she was less than amused. “Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” She didn’t look like she was used to hearing any snark from men, and she seemed to spend several seconds trying to decide whether or not she liked it.

His eyes drifted past her to the big oven behind the bar, inside of which sat several pieces of flatbread baking away. “Think I can get some of that bread?”

Stella turned to one of her barbacks and said something in Spanish. The barback went to the oven, pulled a set of tongs from its place on the wall, and pulled some bread onto a metallic pan. Stella would have had to walk all of four steps, but instead, she rested her elbows on the bar in front of Damian, propping one hip up on the bar cooler. The barback set the plate, which held four hunks of pita bread about the size of a standard dish sponge, in front of him, along with a small saucer of herbs, onto which he poured olive oil from a bottle that had been sitting at the corner of the bar.

“You have an impressive command of the bar,” said Damian. He guessed that the bread had been fired for another ticket; the line of tickets grew one shorter every time a server picked up a plate and carried it off to his or her section, but Stella was able to convince her guy to bump Damian to the front of the line.

“That’s more like it,” said Stella. “So, what brings you into a steakhouse if you don’t have any money?”

“I was looking for my friend, she told me she works here. Her name’s Christyn.”

“Hmm...never heard of her, but she might work at the other location in Memorial City.”

He was beginning to think he had the wrong place entirely. Christyn had told him that the food at her new job was delicious, but the bread here tasted to him exactly how he thought dish sponges might taste: bland, rubbery, and tough. There was something off about the olive oil, too. Wouldn’t stop him from finishing the plate. After a couple of days without food, it was easy to forget how hungry he was, but only at first. Maybe his stomach had contracted or something. He cringed at the thought.

But once he took that first bite, it didn’t matter what it was. If he could, he would probably keep eating and eating until he passed out. But as it were, he was limited by his budget to one plate of not-great bread. He was satisfied, but barely. If he had another encounter with Stella, he thought to himself, he might try and use what Christyn had taught him of neuro-whatever-it-was-called to finesse a real meal out of her.

Before he left, she slipped him a piece of paper with her number on it. “Text me! That way I’ll have your number, and I’ll keep you updated about your friend if I hear anything.”

***

“I need you to take over service to table 84.”

It was Christyn’s first day officially on the floor. Earlier in the shift, Shane had provided her with a new apron: It's time to trade your fledgeling white for server black-on-black, honey, he’d said, beaming like he was sending a child off to college. Although he had been confident enough in her level of experience to yield half of his section to her rather than having her follow him during training, this was the first time he had asked her to take a table he had already started.

“Do they want a bottle of wine?” she asked. A few days ago, she had seen him struggling with bottle service, having to set the bottle on one of his tables to puncture the cork. She hadn’t wanted to humiliate him by pointing out his mistakes in front of his guests, but later on, with the bartender’s permission, she taught him the proper way to do it and had him practice on the well with bottles the bartender already needed opened anyway. He was getting the hang of it, but wine presentation was the first thing he asked her to do to lighten his load if he was in the weeds.

“No, I just--can you please take it, or are you weeded?”

He looked distressed, as if someone at the table was giving him a hard time. “I got you,” she said, and took over, getting their orders and bringing them a round of water refills. She listened in on their conversations, ears pricked for anything offensive--homophobic comments or something of the like--but it was all very innocuous. As far as she could discern, these people were just really into the latest diet trends.

After 84 paid out, they were out of tables. Christyn was on her way to the back to get a head start on their sidework when she saw Shane walking into the office. “You wanted to see me, Mr. McCarthy?”

“Yes, Shane, I wanted to ask you how you would feel about a transfer to the other location in the Heights?”

“Am I being punished?”

“No, my boy! On the contrary, you’re one of my best and brightest. My daughter runs the other location, and she’s experiencing some shortness of staff, so I wanted to send her only my most excellent servers to help lighten her load, and, well, you make the cut with flying colors.”

This was great for Shane! Having his talent recognized by the big boss himself...but then, did that mean he and Christyn would be separated?

“I don’t know, Boss,” said Shane. “I’ve been here for over a year, and I have a good following of regulars here--”

“Which you’ll gain over there soon enough, if you continue to work like you do! Come on, Shane, what can I do to convince you?”

Shane seemed to think about it for a minute. Finally, he said, “Let me take my trainee with me. If she wants to come, of course.”

“I’ll do it!” said Christyn, stepping into the doorway. “That is, if you think I’m ready, Mr. McCarthy.”

If old Mac thought her rude for eavesdropping, he made no mention of it. “Christyn, I actually wanted to speak to you next. You were actually explicitly requested by my daughter.I’m glad to hear you’re onboard.”

Despite Shane’s initial reluctance to accept a transfer, he decided that moving to the Heights location would be an exciting new opportunity, and after work, invited Christyn for drinks to celebrate. “I don’t know if my boyfriend would like that,” she said as they walked out together.

“You know I’m gay, right?”

“It’s not that. He just doesn’t want me getting day drunk all the time like I used to, when I first met him.”

How they met was this: Jesse was in the ER with a broken ankle after tripping over a curb during some field camera work for the oil company. Christyn was in with alcohol poisoning, getting her stomach pumped.

“Oh, trust me, honey, there are deadlier vices.” He looked over his shoulder as if to assess whether or not they were far enough yet from the restaurant for him to make some shocking revelation. Satisfied with the distance, he pulled out his phone and opened a photo on his screen. “That was me in 2016.”

The Shane in the picture was thin and drawn, with dramatic dark circles under his eyes and a smile that nowhere near reached them. “Heroin?” she guessed.

“Anorexia.”

She reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re better now, though, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, sometimes I still have bad thoughts, and I trigger easily.” That would explain why he’d had her pick up that table of diet-mongers. “And I probably drink too much. Honestly, you’ve seen me tipsy at the restaurant. But it calms me down so I can make sure and eat something.”

“Jesus, and you drive yourself home?”

“I take the bus. License is suspended. I can’t believe some of what comes out of old Mac’s mouth about me being such a great waiter...if I’m being honest, I, uh...I faked all of the experience on my resume. This is my first table waiting gig. I actually used to sell cars; well, I started, but then…”

“Then…?” Christyn prompted.

Shane’s cheeks reddened. “I was schmoozing a potential buyer over drinks on my lunch break one day, and when I got back to work, I got a little more fucked up and decided to take one of the cars off the lot for a joyride...after that, I completely blacked out. They found me five days later in the fucking car, and they had already reported it stolen.”

“Damn, who woulda thought Calvin Klein over here was such a little badboy!” Christyn snickered.

They walked ten minutes up the road to the Memorial Lanes bowling alley, where Christyn always drank for free, and was sure Auralee would be willing to hook Shane up, too. When they arrived, only two lanes were occupied and the restaurant area was empty. Auralee was polishing bottles of liquor behind the bar and stopped to pour herself a shot just as Christyn and Shane claimed a pair of adjacent stools.

“What a delight, Chrissy! You haven’t been in for a while. I was beginning to worry you’d gone stone cold sober. You know if that happened, we couldn’t be friends, right? And who’s this cutie?” With her elbows on the bar, she leaned in close to Christyn’s ear and whispered so only she could hear, “He’d be even cuter with a couple more pounds on him, no?”

“Sorry, Aura, you’re out of luck if you’re hoping to sink your teeth into this one,” Christyn replied at normal volume.

“Don’t get me wrong, honey. You’re pretty, for a girl,” Shane added. Auralee’s eyes drifted to the ‘No Hate’ rainbow pin affixed to the key lanyard around his neck, and it dawned on her.

“I see. What’ll it be to drink then? Perhaps something fruity?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Dirty gin martini, bleu cheese olives if you have them, and make it bruised.”

“Chrissy?”

“Whatever you have on tap that’s light; I’m not trying to get too wasted.”

Despite her claim, Christyn ended up quite tipsy. Shane had Auralee keep the martinis coming, and in an effort to keep up, Christyn graduated from beer, to wine, to shots, neat, unchilled, with a water chaser.

“Look, here’s what I think about eating disorders, and I know I probably don’t have any authority to talk about this, seeing as I’ve clearly never had any trouble eating,” she said after they downed their seventh drink.

“You never can tell just by looking at someone, though. Not everyone that has an eating disorder is skinny. Not that--fuck me!” he swore, realizing the underlying implications of what he had said.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,” Christyn assured him, words coming out rapid fire with drunken enthusiasm. “All I’m saying is, don’t you think a bad relationship with food is incredibly manufactured by forces outside our control? Rich, White men in offices who we’ll never meet are saturating our media with weight loss ads and images of frail, dehydrated celebrities, brainwashing us into thinking that looking like that is ideal, all in the name of selling us pills and diet food that don’t work, or work for a while and then stop so we have to come running back for more, wallets open. And by ‘we’ I don’t mean me, because I’ve never bought into this bullshit. But you know what, let’s not even pretend I’m innocent here, or that I’m immune to the grip of the so-called ‘invisible hand,’ because in another life, maybe I would be obsessing about the number on the scale, if I wasn’t so busy obsessing about the number on my bank statement.”

“So what you’re saying is, when the bad thoughts creep in...it’s not really my fault?”

“It’s capitalism’s fault!” she declared, smacking the bar counter.

“Here she goes again,” Auralee chuckled. “That VC blood runs thick. Careful, Sean, or she’ll try and lend you her copy of the Communist Manifesto.”

“His name’s Shane.”

“Wait, you’re Vietnamese?” asked Shane.

“Half.”

“No way! I’m a quarter!” He leaned over and wrapped her in a clumsy hug that almost pulled her off her stool. (She was wasted, they both were; and deep down she knew she was doing the wrong thing, but she was having more fun than she had in weeks!)

“Oh my god! We’re like long lost cousins!”

“I guess you must get your hair color from your father’s side?”

“I get it in a box for three bucks and change! Another round, if you will, Auralee?”

Checking her phone, Christyn was shocked to see they had been at the bar for almost five hours. “It is way past dinnertime...Auralee, bring us a cheese pizza!” She knew from working here back in the day not to order anything fried; some seriously unsanitary crap got dropped in the fryer. But the pizza was decent. In fact, Christyn didn’t think she’d ever had a bad pizza. “I’ll pay for it.”

“You most certainly will not!” Auralee helped herself to another shot, then called into the kitchen, “Zach! Fire me a large cheese pizza!”

A tall, skinny Black guy wearing a baggy shirt and glasses sauntered out of the kitchen holding a spatula. “You know that not my name,” said Zeke Thomas, before rounding to face Christyn. “The fuck, girl! You don’t call ahead no more?”

“It’s good to see you too, Zeke.”

“And who’s this? Your new man? Oh, I forgot, your heart only beats for size 4X these days. I told you that Auralee would rub off on you if you went around her too much.”

Christyn pouted in frustration. “Why does everyone think I have a fat fetish these days?”

“Uh, cause you with a thick guy, ‘thick’ being a understatement,” said Zeke.

“That doesn’t mean I have a fetish!”

“Would it...would it be so bad if you did?” asked Shane.

Christyn shrugged. “I guess not, as long as it didn’t interfere with my focus on work. Why?”

Shane had already opened up a lot to her today, and with the introduction of many, many martinis into his bloodstream, it only took the smallest bit of prompting to crack him like an egg. “I don’t know that I would call it a fetish, but I can get down with some cushion for pushin’. Which confused me for years because of the whole eating disorder thing. It was like I had this mental block where everyone was allowed to indulge except for me.”

“Oh, we’re going to get along famously,” said Auralee. Then, “Zeke, where’s my pizza?”

“Coming right out, Mistress,” said Zeke sardonically, retreating into the kitchen.

Christyn’s heart dropped into her stomach. Zeke’s obvious joke about slavery reminded her of her broken obligations to her own Master. It was Thursday night, and here she was, so drunk her face was numb in Auralee’s bar. She texted him to apologize, but didn't have time to wait for a response before Auralee snapped her out of her thoughts.

“I almost forgot, I have something for you. I was going to give it to you at your job, but it occurred to me that I don’t know where you work anymore.”

“We both work at McCarthy’s up the street, but we’re getting transferred to the Heights cause we’re the besssssst serversssss,” Shane slurred.

“I would have surmised as much. Chrissy, open your present!” she insisted, sliding a neatly wrapped package across the bar which Christyn suspected had been wrapped by Auralee’s personal valet, Wadsworth, a kindly old man who’d been working for Auralee’s family for decades and often helped her with delicate tasks she was too drunk to adequately perform herself.

“Thanks, what’s the occasion?”

“Your birthday? Belated, but it seems it’s all the same to you.”

“Shit, I totally forgot. I was working.”

Auralee’s present was a bottle of perfume that smelled strongly of buttercream frosting and had an exciting effect on the senses. “Why does smelling this make me want cake and sex?”

“Because it’s laced with female pheromones.”

Shane smirked. “Chrissy, you didn’t tell me you swing both ways! Although I should have known; you’re too decent to be straight.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe the things she can do with her tongue!” said Auralee.

“Anyway, how was Zeke?” asked Shane.

“How did you--?”

“Oh come on. His eyes were gleaming with the memory of conquest.”

Christyn shrugged. “Attentive. Big dick, too. Too much competition, though. Guy’s got a certifiable harem. We’re better friends than lovers anyway.”

Soon, the pizza arrived. “I stole a little slice,” Auralee confessed. There was maybe a quarter of a full size slice missing: Auralee didn’t eat much these days, but when she had to be convinced, the way to her heart was cheese. “Anyway, how’s Damian?”

“He’s still job hunting.”

“It’s a shame I’ve filled the barbacking position, then. I could still take on a part-timer, but I really would have preferred to take him on full time. It’d have been better for his wallet...and I bet he would fatten up quite nicely if he spent 40 hours a week under my supervision.”

“Auralee, you’re incorrigible!” snapped Christyn. “You can’t just fatten up everything that moves!”

“You don’t think he’d like it?” Auralee drawled. “I saw the way he looks at bigger men with envy, and the way he looks at food. He’s obviously into you, too. Ask me, that boy is a closet feedee if I ever knew one, and he goes home at night jacking off just thinking about you stuffing him full of fattening treats until he bursts out of his clothes.”

“Jesus, there’s a word for it, even,” said Christyn with a roll of her eyes. She was vaguely familiar with Auralee’s particular set of preferences, but had never bothered interrogating her about it for a lack of interest. She glanced to her side to see how Shane was faring; she hoped this conversation wasn’t triggering him. He seemed fine, though. Talk of weight loss she knew could upset him, but the discussion at hand of weight gain seemed to...fascinate him? “You’re ridiculous, Aura.”

“Care to lay $40 behind your doubts in my intuition?”

“I’m not going to turn my best friend’s sex life into a betting sport.”

“Chrissy, I’m hurt. I thought I was your best friend,” said Auralee, but she wasn’t hurt enough to slow the flow of free drinks.

Christyn and Shane left at closing time.


	10. NINE

**NINE**

In the dream, Christyn was entering a townhouse she understood to be hers. It was a cold winter night and it was late; work had kept her after hours and her husband’s car had already been parked on the street long enough for frost to have gathered on the windshield. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything about climate change? While the poles melted, it seemed down here every winter was getting colder.

She balanced a white cardstock box in one hand as she turned the key and let herself in. Inside was warm and dimly lit by the light of the TV in the living room. Christyn padded to the kitchen, where she turned on the light, set the box down on the counter and popped the lid open to inspect her haul of beautifully decorated assorted donuts from a bakery between work and home. “What did you bring me, babe?” Suddenly, she was hugged from behind, her lover’s thick, pillowy arms wrapping around her while his squishy jelly belly pressed warm and soft into her back. (So she hadn’t married Jesse--corpulent though he was, with a gut that entered a room before he did, there was nothing soft about him in either demeanor nor physicality. She didn’t get much opportunity to touch him, as her hands were usually bound when she was with him, but she suspected she could bounce a quarter off his belly if she tried. Not that she would ever dare; he’d probably throw her out a window and make her beg him to do it again.)

“I thought I’d pick up some sweets for my sweet,” she said.

“You’re too good to me, Chris.”

“Nothing is too good for my darling. Now open up, love, I bet you’re starving.”

As she was released, she picked out a chocolate donut with pink frosting, broke it in half with her fingers, spun around, and lovingly placed a piece in Damian’s mouth.

***

“Fuck my life.”

Christyn awoke at the crack of dawn in the backseat of her Fiat, in the McCarthy’s parking lot, under the blanket she kept in her trunk just in case she ever did what she’d done the previous night and got too drunk to drive. Her throat was dry and tasted of stale booze, her head pounding. Her bra was in her purse; she must have gotten uncomfortable and taken it off in the bowling alley bathroom. She drained a water bottle she kept in her cup holder for such occasions and thanked the powers that be that it was too early for any of her coworkers or supervisors to be around to see her like this, and that she still had ample time to prepare for her shift at 5 tonight.

Crawling into the driver’s seat, she decided to chalk up that weird sex dream--or was it even a sex dream? Every other sex dream she’d had, she had actually, you know, had sex. Ugh, whatever. It was all Auralee’s fault for that conversation last night, and the lingering scent of that cake-scented aphrodisiac perfume couldn’t be helping. She keyed the ignition and headed off, homeward bound.

Still no text from Jesse.

When she got home, she asked the night guard if a guy had swung by her unit, about yay tall, 280 pounds, driving a black Mercedes. Nothing.

When she got to the doorstep, Damian was asleep on her stoop, propped up on top of two patio chairs shoved together.

***

“Wake up, buddy.”

Christyn gently shook him awake by the shoulder, steadying him to keep him from falling off the chairs as he sat up. “What are you doing here, huh?” she asked, her tone soft and lifted with concern.

“They padlocked my door. I didn’t have rent.” His plan had been to save his pride by showing up and getting Christyn to pour them each a few drinks, then forbid him to leave for the night. That would buy him a day without having to admit just how bad things had gotten for him while he struggled to look for a job. But when he’d knocked the previous night, she hadn’t been home.

She looked rough. Her server uniform was rumpled as if she had slept in it, her hair and makeup a mess to match. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and he’d be thinking about how nice it would be to have his face smushed into those ripe breasts if he wasn’t worrying about if she was alright. “What happened to you?”

“I got drunk at Auralee’s bar,” she said. “How much money do you need?”

“Chris, no, I already owe you so much money.”

“How much?” When he responded with silence, she pulled out her phone and said, “I guess since you won’t talk, I’ll just have to wire you another grand--”

“Four hundred! I’m four hundred short, okay?”

He wanted to kick himself as she sent the money, but at least he wouldn’t have to sleep outside again.

“Now, come inside. I need a greasy, fried breakfast to get rid of this killer hangover, and you look like you’re hurting for a good meal, too.” ‘Hurting’ was an accurate way to put it. He was so hungry, he was starting to feel sick.

He followed her inside, collapsing into a chair by the coffee table while she disappeared into the kitchen. “Job hunt not going well, then?” she called into the living room as she cooked.

“I’ve applied everywhere online, I just haven’t gotten a phone call.”

“Well, have you tried hitting the bricks?”

“I thought you wanted me to stop doing illegal shit!”

“Not ‘hit a lick,’ you dork, hit the bricks! It means go knocking on doors, applying in person, you know.”

“Does that still work nowadays?”

“In my experience, it works better.”

She walked back into the living room holding two plates, two forks, and a skillet holding a mess of scrambled eggs, beans, baby tomatoes cut in half, potatoes diced into tiny cubes, and what had to amount to a whole fresh avocado. She had cut pieces of bread into small squares too and let those toast in the skillet, soaking up the eggs and juices from the tomatoes as they cooked. When she handed him a plate, he helped himself enthusiastically. It smelled amazing, everything coated generously with seasoning, and when he took a bite, he thought to himself that maybe he had been stabbed in his sleep and now he was in Heaven.

“Oh, by the way, I found this in my kitchen. Is it yours?” she asked, holding up a small object. It had a handle about as wide as a ballpoint pen, but only half as long, attached to a thin metal rod that was curved at the business end.

“If that was mine, I wouldn’t have had to sleep on the porch.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's a lock pick, Christyn.”

He finished his plate and was about to ask her for more, despite already being full. His stomach could stretch to fit another plate, and he wasn’t sure when he’d get to eat again, so he figured he had better get down what he could while he was here. That’s when he noticed she was only about halfway through her own plate and looking off-color. “I’ll be right back,” she said as she dismissed herself to the bathroom, but she wasn’t right back, and soon, he heard her puking in there. Wracked with concern, he stepped in to see if she needed any help.

She had decided to lose the shirt--probably threw up on it--so there she was, tits out, not that he could see anything, as she was bent over the toilet. Wanting to help in any way he could, he swept her long blonde hair behind her shoulders and held it out of the way so she wouldn’t get vomit in it. “Thank you, Damian,” she said once she stopped throwing up.

“You know I got you.”

She was still bent double, and he noticed just above the waistband of her slacks these two raised lumps an inch or so off-center of her spine. “What happened to your back?”

“You know the discs of cartilage between your vertebrae? Couple mine got dislocated.”

“How?”

“Got hit. Don’t wanna talk about it,” she said, breathing hard.

“Do they hurt?”

“No, lucky for me. It’s just sometimes my legs get numb. I should have surgery, but I don’t have any health insurance.”

She seemed like she was done puking, so he left her alone so she could have her privacy.

She came back out wearing her PJs and collapsed in her bed. He brought her a glass of water and she tried to drink a little, but ended up setting it on the floor. She still looked so miserable, and in a desperate bid to make her feel better, he sat down on the bed and experimentally rubbed her stomach in slow circles through her thin shirt. “Is this okay?” he asked.

“Mhmm.” She nodded without opening her eyes. “Keep doing that, it makes me feel better.”

He did as he was told. “Which McCarthy’s do you work at?” he asked.

“Bunker Hill, but I’m getting transferred to Washington.”

“Washington? Great, lemme apply there.”

“Please. I miss working with you.”

As they spoke, he continued to massage her belly and hoped he wasn’t enjoying the act too much. She had a perfect little handful of softness just below the navel that, while it didn’t hold a candle to her tits or her ass, which with plenty of muscle tone but enough jiggle to drive a man crazy was easily her most prominent physical feature, was very pleasant to get to touch. As she drifted off into a midmorning nap, he wondered what it must feel like to be soft, and to have $20,000 in the bank.

***

Christyn’s first few days at McCarthy’s on Washington were proving to be a challenge.

She and Shane continued to have each other’s backs on the floor, or at least, they tried their best. Sometimes, that had to be good enough. The new setup included more steps of service to each table. Instead of pint glasses, water service entailed setting a stemmed glass barely larger than an egg cup in front of every customer and a decorative bottle of water in the center of the table that couldn’t have contained more than a refill and a half for a four-top. Christyn found herself having to replace the water bottle at least twice before she even took the appetizer order, and not being able to rely on a pitcher of water with which to hit her whole section in one pass was slowing her down major.

Bread service was different, too; rather than just taking some bread and butter from a server station, servers had to ring in each plate and wait for it. Instead of butter, there were bottles of olive oil on the table, which they were expected to pour onto a plate in front of the guests for what Christyn guessed was the sake of theatrics.

Sections were three tables wide, but even such a small section could weed them with the extra steps of service to worry about, especially considering the design of the restaurant. Spacious though it was inside, the dining room was minimalist in structure, with no cabinets or nooks and crannies for Christyn to make an impromptu server station out of like she used to at the old store. There was one mise-en-place station, towards the back of the dining room, which made resetting silver a pain in all but the two back sections. It was like the restaurant was deliberately designed to waste their time. Luckily, Christyn and Shane were able to develop a system to keep them ahead of seating. They would pool their sections together, Shane greeting all the tables and taking orders while Christyn dropped water and kept an eye on the well and the line to run food and bar drinks. As Shane sold desserts, Christyn prebussed, and as he stood at tables making himself their new favorite server who they’d be asking for next time, Christyn folded both their shares of napkins for place settings, polished both their shares of wine glasses for the next shift, and collected the olive oil bottles from all their tables to refill them from a five-gallon drum in the dish pit onto which was taped a sign:

_USE ½ GAL EVOO_

_4.5 GAL CANOLA_

Their system worked for three days, until they were both called into the office by Libby McCarthy.

Libby was a big woman--not at all fat, but tall and broad and imposing, not like her father, who was short and stooped and generally had an air of a cool temper. If Christyn had been easier to intimidate, having the owner of the Heights store glare her down from where she stood behind her desk would have her shaking in her non-slips. But if Libby thought she was scary, she should meet Jesse. He’d have her running for the nearest exit to her own establishment, Christyn was sure.

“Christyn, I’m troubled. Joe tells me,” she said, Joe being one of the middle-managers who was also scheduled a few server shifts, “that you haven’t been greeting your own tables or taking your own orders.”

“What difference does it make as long as the orders are being taken?” said Christyn. “The food gets on the table either way. And I’ve been running my own food, Shane’s food, and anyone else’s food that happens to be on the line when I’m in the kitchen, which is more than a lot of the other servers do.”

“But how is the food hitting your tables if you aren’t taking orders?”

“Well you see,” said Christyn, “there’s a printer in the kitchen that spits out tickets that indicate what food goes where. And when I went to school, they taught me how to do a thing called reading.”

Libby’s eyes narrowed; she was clearly not amused by Christyn’s sarcastic sense of humor. “You need to be on the floor, selling. If you’re not selling, you’re no use to me. Or maybe you’d rather I demote you to server assistant? And you,” she said, rounding on Shane next. “Joe tells me you haven’t been doing your sidework.”

“Tell Joe that as a manager, he has the option of giving us a verbal warning first, before playing the snitch,” said Shane. “And the sidework is getting done; Christyn’s been helping me so I have more time to talk to tables.”

“Doing sidework builds character,” Libby said sternly, “and I won’t let you stand around and get spoiled on my clock. Now, I need each of you to sign these.” She put write-up slips in both their hands.

Despite now both being in the bad books, they walked out of the office chuckling. “Girl, you were a badass in there!” said Shane.

She could scarcely believe everything she’d said in there. After surviving the Capital, she had a new sense of her own worth as an employee that she had never felt before. It didn’t hurt either that she had Shane for an ally.

“Me? Look at you, standing your ground.”

“Well, shucks, I couldn’t have done it without you there for emotional support.”

“You know I got you. In this industry, that’s the way it’s gotta be.”

***

Days passed, and she still hadn’t heard from Jesse. She was beginning to understand that this torturous silence was to be her punishment; it was agonizing, but not the worst he could do, which was fitting, because her infraction had not been her worst, either. Once, toward the beginning of their relationship, they had been playing around with a cat-o'-nine tails, Christyn bound by her wrists facedown in bed, when he’d struck the backs of her thighs and said to her, Those little grunts of yours are cute, but I want to hear you scream. She had made the mistake of outright sassing him: Then why don’t you make me? So, he grabbed the toy by the whip end and struck her with the handle, and now she needed back surgery.

In the wake of Jesse’s falling off the face of the planet, everyone and their cousin seemed desperate to get a hold of her, as if the universe was trying to soothe her by drowning out her ache for his presence with endless noise. Chester wanted to know where she was working so he might swing by and leave her a good tip for her belated birthday. Roger wanted to let her know that his distillery was holding a bartending competition towards the end of November, and she was encouraged to enter. (Sadly, one had to be currently employed as a bartender in order to be eligible to apply, so unless Libby promoted her, she didn’t have a shot, and Libby wasn’t getting any warmer towards her.) Paloma from the Capital wanted to grab a drink, but Christyn made an excuse not to go. Auralee wanted to grab a drink, but Christyn said she was busy. Hope Thomas, Zeke’s little sister, drunkdialed her from beautiful Verona, Italy, where she was spending her summer after making a killing at her last table waiting gig, bragging about what a great time she was having and promising to catch her up as soon as she returned over--what else?--a drink.

She was irate by the time Damian’s call reached her phone one morning while she polished glasses for the mise-en-place station. Still polishing, she put him on speaker and propped him up against the back of a shelf. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Let me guess, you want to get f’d up, too?” (Earlier in the week, Libby had gotten on her about swearing, even before any guests walked in, so she was now making a point to censor herself while keeping it clear exactly what she meant.)

“I...um…” There was silence on the line for a solid minute.

“Sorry, Damian, I didn’t mean to snap. Temptation’s been a real B-I-T-C-H on all fronts lately.”

“No worries. Hey, I’m in the front of your restaurant filling out an application. Think you can come up here and help ya boy out?”

When Christyn arrived in the foyer, Damian was seated on the bench, wide-eyed and shaking from the chill of being damp from the sudden rainstorm outside and subjected to the AC. Aside from being a little rained on, though, he looked presentable. He was wearing khakis and that blue-gray shirt Christyn liked on him. “You changed your hair! I like it,” he said. “Not that I didn’t like it before…”

“Thanks. My boss didn’t like the platinum; she said with my dark roots growing in I looked ‘unprofessional.’” Last night, she had bought a box dye for $3.97 and returned to her natural dark brown. She didn’t really like it, but she had liked the platinum even less; she only dyed it that color in the first place to please Jesse. Her hair was tied into a tight bun that gave her a headache; apparently, the low, loose one she’d worn at the Capital wouldn’t suffice here. “Now, what are you having trouble with?”

“How do you spell ‘customer'?”

She wanted to smack herself. Or him.

She sat down on the bench next to him, eyes forward as if she didn’t know him, lest the boss pass by and catch her feeding him pointers. “C-u-s-t-o-m-e-r. Look, I have to be quick; morning pre-shift starts in a minute or two.”

“Great. Thanks. How do you spell ‘service'?”

“You know you’re applying for a customer service position, right?” She dared a glance down at his application and had to stop herself from reacting physically to what she saw. “You’ve misspelled your own name.”

“No, see, that was on purpose. ‘Damien' with an E don’t have no record.”

“You know, you might be smarter than I ever gave you credit for. But also: s-e-r-v-i-c-e.”

“Are you sure?”

“Have I ever led you wrong?”

He was still shivering so bad his hand shook as he was trying to write. “You’re freezing.”

“How are you not?”

“I got here before it started raining, silly. That, and I have a bit more insulation than you have. But I can fix that,” she said, standing up and walking behind the host stand.

“How...how would you do that?” he asked. He had a look on his face that she wasn’t sure how to interpret...not that she had time. She took her purple fleece sweater from where she had stashed it on a shelf with the menus and tossed it at him to put on; it was a little short in the sleeves but even as he left it open, she could tell it would zip up with some room.

Just then, the bell rung, like they were still in elementary school, and Christyn scurried off to the back room for pre-shift.

As Joe was rattling off the specials of the day at an auctioneer’s pace, Libby strode into the room holding a stack of papers. She looked pointedly at Christyn and interrupted the meeting to say, “That’s your man up at the front?”

“He’s my friend, yeah.”

“I can see that. You’ve written him a glowing letter of recommendation.”

“He was a great employee while he worked for me.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s a good fit for the company.” She tore through Damian’s paperwork straight down the middle and let it flutter to the floor for the staff to pick up.

Christyn was the first to her knees, her eyes burning. One of the bartenders, a skinny brunette, soon came to her aid. “Meet me on the roof after shift,” she said.

***

Christyn finished her sidework early and was the first to arrive to the top floor of the garage, where employees were required to park. The bartender arrived five minutes later. “Your name is Christyn, right?”

“That’s me.”

“Estrella. Or Stella, if you prefer.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“I prefer Estrella, but not everyone can pronounce it.”

“Estrella it is, then,” said Christyn. As Estrella began to lead the way back down the stairs, she said, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“You’re a team player, Christyn. Always helping me prebuss the bar or running other servers’ drinks out of the well. You have to know that I appreciate it. Libby, however, does not.”

“What? Why?”

“She doesn’t want us to like each other. She wants us to compete. She figures if she can keep us all scrambling to outsell one another, she’ll make more money.” As they reached the bottom of the stairwell, she said, “Let me treat you to lunch?”

As they walked across the street to Estrella’s favorite restaurant, Christyn realized with dismay that it was her letter of recommendation that had killed Damian’s chances of being hired.

Cafe Alexis was a small, cozy health food spot where you ordered at the counter, took a number, and a foodrunner served you at a table. Estrella ordered a shot of vodka, which she slammed back at the counter, and the happy hour appetizer of the day, which came free upon request with every drink and happened to be a hummus plate with vegetables and pita today, but she said to hold the pita. Christyn ordered the Southwestern Wrap, but asked that they hold the chicken and add extra chipotle ranch. Estrella wrinkled her nose. “You’re just putting back in the calories you took out by omitting the chicken.”

“Oh, stop it, Stella!” said the girl on the register before turning to Christyn. “She’s like this with her men, too. Don’t worry, girlie, you can have as much chipotle ranch as you want. I’ll even give you some more on the side.”

Once they’d picked out a table, Estrella went right back to spilling company secrets. “Libby’s such a dumb cow. She really thinks those little mini-carafes we use to pour wine are a ‘sales tool.’ She’s always telling us to pour half the glass and then leave the carafe, then swing by the table, pour the rest, wave the empty carafe as if it’ll somehow brainwash the customers into ordering another glass on the spot. It’s a complete waste of time, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, brainwashing is a much more complicated matter. The one time I tried it, it took me weeks.”

Estrella peered at her quizzically. “I knew there was something different about you,” she said. “So who’d you brainwash?”

“My little barback.”

“You’re a bartender?”

“I was, at my old job.”

“Tell me, how many ounces of vodka go in a martini?”

“Well, first of all, it should be gin, but I guess that is a matter of opinion,” said Christyn. “But it’s two and a half.”

“That’s what I thought!” said Estrella. “Libby has us pouring four.”

“Why would she do that?” asked Christyn. “For someone who’s all about the bottom line, she’s practically giving away liquor.”

“I don’t know, but the wine bottles are too cheap, too. I saw a bottle of Santa Lucia at the grocery store for more than we’re selling it for. There’s something weird going on at this restaurant, but I don’t know what.”

“Tell me about it,” agreed Christyn. “Why would Libby request me specifically, then treat me like garbage every minute I’m in the building?”

Estrella gave her a sheepish look. “That...may have been my fault,” she confessed. “I told Libby that I’d worked with you before, and that I completely hated you. I said you were the most hot-headed, cantankerous server I’d ever met, and that you had no misgivings about sharking tables or overserving alcohol if it could make you a quick buck. I knew if I said that, she’d hire you.”

“Why?” asked Christyn. “How did you even know my name?”

“Your friend dropped it when he came in for a drink.”

“Which friend?”

“Mulatto guy, average height, thin, gorgeous smile, cheekbones that could cut glass, curly hair, kind of an attitude...Dominic or Darius or something that started with a D…”

“Damian!” Christyn placed him in a second. She winced. Cheekbones that could cut glass. He wasn’t eating. He was still jobless, and had too much pride to ask her for more help. “And...wait. You served him liquor? Did you ID him?”

“...Fuck.”

Soon the food landed, and Christyn bit into her wrap, impressed with the quality. The tortilla was soft and tasted homemade, the rice fluffy, the vegetables crisp and the corn and beans warm and juicy. “Thank you so much for lunch, Estrella. Would you like half of this? I’m not going to finish.”

“That’s okay. Way too many calories. It looks good, but you’re never going to lose weight like that.”

“Who says I’m trying to lose weight?” Christyn dipped her wrap into her side of extra dressing and took a bite. “So you got me transferred because I’m friends with Damian...do you like him? Is that it? You thought maybe if you got me moved to the store on Washington, he’d come in more frequently?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“I should kill you,” said Christyn. “I was having a much better time at the other store.”

“I’m sorry. I saw something I liked, and I took action!”

“You’re forgiven,” said Christyn. “Just have my back as long as I have yours.”

***

The call came in as Christyn was driving home.

“Hi, this is Alexis Strauss, owner and general manager of Cafe Alexis. Can I speak to Chris Brandywine?”

“This is she,” said Christyn, plugging in her earpiece. “What seems to be the problem? Have I left my credit card there?” That wouldn’t even make sense; Estrella had paid.

“No, nothing like that. I’m here with Damian Mendez; he’s in my office. I wanted to call and verify his letter of rec; too many people fake these things these days.”

“I completely understand,” said Christyn. “I did write the letter, and if you don’t hire Damian, it’ll be the mistake of your life. He’s wonderful.”

“Good, good to know,” said Alexis. “I’ve been hurting for reliable employees. Lately too much money has gone missing, but you’re a manager. You know. But as long as you can vouch for his integrity, I’ll hand him his W2 right now!”

As Alexis hung up, Christyn beamed with pride. Her little protege, off to his next great adventure! She was sure the folks at the cafe would love him. And now she could visit him whenever she wanted, seeing as he’d be right across the street.


	11. TEN

**TEN**

A job was a job, right?

That’s what Damian tried to tell himself as he finished up his first week at Cafe Alexis.

Once in a while, he got to do the easy part, working behind the register, but that job was usually reserved for his coworker, Lacie, when she was there, because Bob, the floor manager, wanted a pretty girl working the counter. Most of the time, Damian was put on grunt work--restocking ice, setup, breakdown, making salads in the back--none of which he minded; in fact, all the cleaning and heavy lifting actually relaxed him, reminding him of his work with Christyn at the Capital. It was working on the floor that he hated: delivering food, bussing tables, and cleaning up after a bunch of people just in from their morning runs who wouldn’t stop yakking about their diets. The restaurant always reeked of sweat. Damian found it disgusting. He didn’t come in smelly and unshowered, so why did the customers think it was okay to do so? Have a little decency, people.

Still, the job was not without its highlights, Lacie being one of them. She was, indeed, stunningly pretty, with long brown hair and a face that reminded him of cheerleaders in frat movies. She also had a fantastic ass that strained the seat of her jeans, and he couldn't help but be fixated every time she accidentally bumped into something with it. More importantly, she had a warm personality and always helped him with his workload once she was done ringing up customers for the shift.

After they clocked out for lunch one day, she pulled a large plastic container out of the microwave before Damian had a chance to assemble himself something to eat off the line. “My grandma always packs me way too much leftovers,” she said. “Do you want any of this? It’s lasagna.” As she took off the lid and the delicious aroma wafted towards him, he felt his mouth beginning to water.

“I mean, if you’re not gonna finish it…”

“I insist! You work so hard that you’ll probably pass out if you keep eating nothing but the rabbit food here.” She scraped a hearty portion of lasagna onto a plate and handed it to him with a fork.

The lasagna was better than anything Damian had ever had from a box in the freezer aisle, rich and hearty without being too overwhelmed by cheese, and after living on cold tortillas and salsa for the past week, he couldn’t stand to pace himself and was finished within minutes. “You said your grandma made that?”

“Yeah, I still live with her. My mom lived with us too, for a while, but when I was little I was raised to believe she was my sister. She had me when she was really young, see,” said Lacie. “I’m trying to get my own place, but I have to save up some money first.”

“Just get fake check stubs,” said Damian. “That’s what I did to get an apartment. My boy Weezy knows how to make ‘em. Then again, he hardly takes my calls no more. I can never tell when he’s in the lockup. I might have seen him when I was in there; the days kind of get to be a blur.”

Lacie chuckled. With a devious sparkle in her eyes, she said, “What is with you boys in this industry always getting thrown in jail? Y’all all need to learn to be slick enough not to get caught.”

***

Stella and Christyn made frequent stops into the cafe. Christyn always got a wrap but never finished it; Damian always asked her if she wanted to take it to go, but she told him he could eat it in the back if he wanted. Between Lacie splitting her lunch with him on the regular and relying on Christyn’s generosity for dinner, he steadily recovered the weight he’d lost going days at a time without eating when he was out of a job. He knew they were just well-meaning, but he thought to himself guiltily that it would be extremely hot to be tag-teamed by two beautiful girls secretly co-conspiring to make him softer.

But he had no such luck, as Christyn and Lacie seemed not to be in communication other than the short conversations they had at the cafe, and the weight came on mostly in muscle anyway from having to do all the hard work in the restaurant.

“How’s your boyfriend?” he asked Christyn one day while he was cleaning her table and bringing Stella a second vodka soda.

“I probably completely fucked things up. That day I got drunk with Auralee, I had totally forgotten about our date, and now he won’t speak to me.”

“That’s real mature of him. What is he, thirty?”

“Forty, as of the fourth.”

“Hmm...you know, that’s really interesting that you know his birthday and he doesn’t know yours.”

Damian thought he might have an in at last, but Stella chose that moment to finish her first drink and say, “Hey Damian, why don’t we do something sometime?”

“I...like, a date?”

“If that’s what you want to call it!” she chirped brightly. “Anyway, where are you taking me? Might I suggest the IMAX? There’s a horror movie out I’ve been dying to see…”

This put Damian in a tough position. He was never into Stella that way, and now, the forward nature of her advances was making him nervous. But she was a bartender at Christyn’s job. Damian didn’t want her taking it out on Christyn on the clock if he rejected her. So, reluctantly, he said, “Sure, let’s go to the movies. What does your Tuesday next week look like?”

The movie, as it turned out, was the latest bastardization of Hansel and Gretel. It wasn’t very good, but he was glad he’d accidentally forgotten to return Christyn’s sweater, and that he had brought it along, so he could lay it over his lap when he sprung an awkward boner during the scene where the witch’s plans were revealed.

His second date with Stella didn’t go much better. He had asked Christyn for restaurant recommendations, and she had suggested a place called Ta-Ta’s off the beltway near where he stayed, telling him they had the best fried shrimp in the city limits. Only, when he and Stella got there, the waitresses were wearing next to nothing.

He had forgotten to mention to Christyn that he was taking a girl out. She probably thought he would enjoy this kind of thing, and maybe he would have, but none of the skimpily-dressed waitresses appealed to him--too skinny for his taste.

Stella looked less than pleased, but decided that since they were already here, they might as well get a table. Service was slow, so slow, in fact, that Damian was starving by the time food hit the table and ate with a desperate need that had Stella cringing across the table. (But for the record, Christyn was right; the fried shrimp was wonderfully crispy and seasoned to perfection.)

“I don’t know what disturbs me more,” said Stella, “the fact that you took me to the local breastaurant, or you being more interested in food than women.”

“Aw, come on, babe, I only have eyes for you.” It was an empty promise, but a good save, and he earned himself a kiss in the parking lot before she let him take her home.

***

“What’s on the menu today?” asked Damian as he met Lacie in the kitchen at the start of his break.

“I think you’re gonna like this. Nobody doesn’t like Nana’s meatloaf.” She pulled two meatloaf sandwiches out of the microwave and handed him one, beaming.

“That looks amazing! But there’s no way your grandma actually expects you to finish two whole meatloaf sandwiches.”

“Maybe I had her pack extra,” said Lacie. “Maybe I mean to fatten you up a shade.”

She was almost certainly playing. She had to be. Unless…?

If only she knew she had just stumbled upon the key to his heart.

“But seriously, you being with Stella Alba now, I bet she doesn’t let you eat as much as you want to. I see her in the store all the time. She’s always talking about her diet, and whenever she’s with a guy, he looks miserable.”

“Good thing I don’t let people tell me what to do.” Except for that one time he was brainwashed. Whoops.

The sandwich was so thick he had to eat it with a fork. It was so good, though, and sinfully filling. “That said,” he said between bites, “please don’t stop feeding me. Your grandma is an excellent chef! She could give Christyn a run for her money.”

“Christyn, that’s Stella’s friend, right? The cute curvy one?”

“Do you...do you like girls, or guys?”

“Both. I definitely like my women curvy.”

Damian smiled. “Me too. And your men?”

She reddened. “Okay, I hope you didn’t get skeeved out by that ‘fatten you up’ comment before--”

“I really didn’t.”

“And it’s just that you were so skinny when you started here, like, scary skinny, and you look a lot healthier now, and--”

“Hey.” He put down his plate to wrap her up in a hug. “You’ve been great, okay? And I get the sense that we’re both dealing with the same thing...in different ways...I don’t really understand it myself, but there's something I want and if you want it too...maybe we don’t have to be alone?”

She sank against him, rubbing his back. “Do you want to come over for dinner after work?” she asked. “Nana’s making gnocchi by hand, from scratch.”

“Would I ever!”

***

Damian followed Lacie's car until she pulled up in front of the townhouse she shared with her grandmother in the outer Westheimer area, a few minutes closer to the beltway than where Christyn stayed. Her grandmother was a kindly-looking, full-figured woman appearing to be in her late 50s or early 60s. She was finicking over saucepans and pots on the stove when they entered and did a double take when she realized Lacie had company. “Oh, how wonderful! You’ve brought a friend.”

“Nana, this is Damian, from my job.”

Damian let her pull him in for a hug, a little confused on how to address her--he didn’t even know Lacie’s last name. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs…?”

“Oh, none of this formality. You can call me Paulette.”

“It’s nice to meet you then, Paulette. And I can see where Lacie gets her good looks!” Not that she was a GILF or anything. (Except she was a total GILF.)

While the introductions were being done, a bark sounded from the next room and a big, magnificent husky ran right up to Damian and jumped on him, paws on his shoulders with a force that almost knocked him over. “Persephone! Down!” Lacie snapped her fingers, and the dog obediently backed off, tail wagging low and slow as she looked from Lacie to Damian, seeming let down.

“I really don’t mind it,” he said.

“Glad to see you’re a dog person...but we can’t let her just jump on everyone. Nana, me and Damian are gonna go upstairs and listen to some music before dinner,” Lacie declared, dragging him by the wrist into the stairwell.

“Alright. Leave the door open, honey!” Paulette called after them.

“Jesus, Nana, I’m twenty-one!” Lacie yelled back before pulling Damian into her room and slamming the door behind them. “Anyway, Damian...do you like to smoke weed?”

Oh yeah. It was going to be a fun night.

They sat on the bed passing the pipe between them a few times, until Damian was feeling nice and mellow, Lacie experiencing devious little giggle fits. “Hey, come here.” Suddenly, she got up and led him to the bathroom.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to get some preliminary numbers.” She pulled a scale out of a closet. Damian could hear his heartbeat in his ears.

“So you really were serious about...all that stuff?

“Only...only if you’re okay with it,” she said, glancing shyly off to the side.

“Oh, I am more than okay with it,” he promised, and stood on the scale, watching the needle settle at just over 139 and a half.

“Almost 140, good!” said Lacie.

“How is that good?” To him, the number seemed pathetically small compared to where he fantasized about being, a thought that would have brought him self-conscious shame if he were around anyone else, but with Lacie, he felt safe. Here, he had freedom to explore this side of himself.

“Well, you were probably about 120 when you started at the cafe. It broke my heart! You looked like you had been starved!”

“I’m lucky you were there to rescue me.”

“I’ll do more than that,” she said, moving close enough to hook her thumb in the waistband of his work slacks. “I want to see you with another twenty. I want these to be tight on you.”

“Yeah? Tell me more. Tell me what you’re going to do to me.”

“I’m going to stuff you with so much food this button pops.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Kids! Come get dinner before it gets cold!” Paulette called from downstairs. Lacie smirked.

“Hungry?” she asked Damian.

“Do your worst.”

Paulette’s gnocchi was everything Damian imagined after sampling her cooking on the job. She served it tossed in a hearty brown mushroom sauce which she said used red wine and a roux of butter and veal stock. He was so impressed that he had no problem cleaning his first plate, which Lacie had piled high, and as he asked for more, her breathing shallowed and she crossed her legs hard under the table.

Of course, being stoned, Lacie was experiencing no lack of appetite, but Damian still beat her out by almost a whole plate. As dinner was wrapping up, Lacie stopped her grandmother from beginning to clear the table. “I got this, Nana. You cooked, I’ll clear.” She removed the empty plate in front of Damian and whispered to him, “Wait for me upstairs.”

He stumbled up the stairs and collapsed on his back in bed, running a hand up his stomach through his shirt. It was rounded out and resisted a slight push of his fingertips when he pressed. God, he felt so good. So full. So safe.

Once Lacie had finished doing the dishes, she came upstairs with a plate in hand of something warm and sweet smelling. “What is that?” he asked, tilting his head to look up at her.

“Canadian butter tarts. Nana just took them out of the oven a few minutes ago. Are you feeling up for dessert?”

So, they were Canadian. Damian would have guessed Minnesota, by the accents. Then again, all he knew of accents was influenced by TV. He had never been outside of Houston.

“I guess I could eat some more. Just...let me go slow?”

“Of course! You’ve already eaten so much at dinner...I don’t want to make you sick and have you wasting calories.” She sat down on the bed next to him, propped up against the headboard, and broke off a small piece of tart with her fingers. “Try this, and tell me how you like it.”

This was the stuff of his wildest dreams. He accepted the bite she held to his lips and the flavor exploded on his tongue, flaky warm pastry mixing with gooey, creamy filling. Bit by bit, he let her feed him three butter tarts, by the third feeling his stomach stretch to fit each additional bite. Yes, yes, yes. This was the feeling he craved, that he tried to chase whenever he could. At this point, Lacie paused to check in with him. “How are you feeling?”

“So full. So good. Tastes amazing. So good I want you to keep feeding me that, even though it feels like I’m finna explode.”

“Maybe we can take a little break? Here, come here.” She tugged him up by the wrist and he reluctantly followed her back to the bathroom, feeling heavy and weighted down. She put him back on the scale and jumped in delight. “That’s a whole two pound food baby we put in you!” She gave his belly a slap, and he groaned. “Oh! I’m sorry, baby! Here, come back to bed.”

It was a relief to be laid back on the mattress. Once he was on his back again, Lacie slipped a hand under his shirt and began to rub his belly, running her hands up and down both sides from the bottom of his ribcage to the waistband of his pants, thumbs barely brushing his navel. Her touch was like magic. “Ooh, your stomach is hard as a rock!” she said. “But if we keep doing this, it’ll be soft soon. You’ll be soft all over, and then, what will Stella say? She’ll know someone is feeding you well...she’ll know what a slut you’ve been. But you’ll like being my fat slut, won’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, arching his back to press his belly against her working hands. “Make me your fat slut, Lacie.” He was as achingly hard now as he was achingly full; he’d been at half mast all evening but now it would be impossible for her to ignore the bulge in his pants. “Oh, shit,” she said, nervously palming him through the fabric. “Damian, I’m starting to come down and I don’t think I like being full as much as you do...I feel like shit, honestly. Definitely too full for sex. Not that I would know how…”

“Are...are you a virgin?”

“I live with my grandma, what do you think?” she said. She gave his gut another slap, he whined, and she muttered an apology. “I’ve never even taken a guy home before,” she confessed. “But when I found out you might share my fantasy I couldn’t resist! Anyway, I don’t want to blue ball you. Maybe I could suck your dick?”

“Have you ever sucked a dick before?”

“I can figure it out.”

She opened his pants and tugged them down, taking him into her mouth while she continued to rub his belly, which was nice. He had never gotten his dick sucked before, but found she was doing a good job, until it started to hurt. “Oof! Lacie, do you think you can keep your teeth off it?”

“Oops! Sorry!”

She went back to it, mouth open a little wider this time, and it felt so good, so good, so good, until he hit her gag reflex or something and she threw up all over his fucking dick.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay...you said you were too full...I should have got you to lay down for a minute.”

Damian cleaned himself up in the shower and returned to Lacie, who was now balled up in bed, cursing and crying. “It’s really not that bad,” he tried to reassure her. “Maybe we can just cuddle for a while?”

“O-okay.” Trembling, she turned around and wrapped an arm around his waist. He held her until she stopped crying. “I hope you’ll let me do this again sometime. I promise I won’t mess up next time. You’re still so skinny.”

***

Damian had driven himself home before it got too late. Usually if he had money, he would hit up the fast food place at the end of his street where it intersected the beltway for breakfast, but he woke up still too full, which was a heavenly feeling, and convenient, because he didn’t have any money. Paychecks didn’t land for another week, and his cash tips had covered the tab at the ‘breastaurant,’ as Stella called it, and half a tank of gas, but that was it.

When he arrived at work, Lacie was already there, and her posture shrank awkwardly behind the counter as he walked through the door. “Are you okay?” he asked as he joined her in straightening up the area before their shift.

“I still feel so bad about vomiting on you last night.”

“Don’t sweat it, that was the sexiest part.”

“What?” She stammered and flushed adorably.

“Ha! I totally got you!” He laughed and elbowed her teasingly in the ribs. “Seriously, though. I get that you’re embarrassed; I would be too if I was the one that got sick on you. But don’t beat yourself up too bad, okay?”

It was a slow day, and during the lull while Damian was on his way back to the kitchen to put the ice bucket back, he passed Lacie from behind and said, “You did a good job feeding me last night.”

“Yeah?”

“I couldn’t have ate breakfast this morning if I tried, I was still so full. But you know what that means, don’t you?”

“What does it mean?” she asked, exhaling.

“It means your fat slut finna be hungry before lunchtime.” With the coast clear, he gave her ass a playful smack.

“Ooh, getting demanding, are we? I guess as the one plotting to make you into a plump, lazy hedonist, I have only myself to blame,” said Lacie. “Well...no one’s here now. If you want, I actually packed a little snack for you.” She pulled a stash of leftover butter tarts out from under the counter. “What do you say?”

“You’re too good to me babe. Lemme just find a plate.”

“If it’s okay, can I feed it to you?” asked Lacie. “By hand? I want to feel responsible for every sweet little ounce of fat we add to your body.”

“Goddamn, girl, that’s the sex--”

He was silenced as she shoved a butter tart into his mouth whole. Between chewing and swallowing, he let out ecstatic moans. “That’s right, baby. Swallow it down.” She brushed some crumbs that had slipped out the side of his mouth and made him suck them off her thumb.

And of course, Stella would choose that exact moment to walk into the restaurant. “Damian, what are you doing?”

His eyes widened as he struggled to gulp down the last of the tart so he could invent some answer she would accept. Luckily, Lacie was able to think on her feet.

“He’s having a midmorning snack, duh.”

“And I suppose you casually shove food in people’s mouths, just as a friend, is that it?”

“I mean, yeah. Want a Canadian butter tart?” Lacie pressed one toward Stella across the counter.

“No!” Stella turned her head and smacked it out of Lacie’s hand. It hit the floor on the other side of the counter. Lacie pouted.

“You don’t consider me a friend, Stella?”

“Some friend! You know I’m on Keto!” She seemed to accept Lacie’s cover story, more concerned about her own diet than anything else, and questioned Damian no further. Shoving the napkin dispenser towards him, she said, “Clean yourself up. Christyn’s a few minutes behind me, and I don’t need my best friend seeing my man make a pig of himself. And go ahead and put me in for a Greek salad, no dressing, add chicken, and she’ll do the wrap again, but don’t give her any extra dressing. You won’t be doing her any favors.”

There was no part of what she said that Damian didn’t resent, but as Christyn walked in, he wiped his face off and went in the back to put together the order, pretending everything was cool, not wanting to disturb the peace.

He dropped off their order, placing a side of extra dressing defiantly in front of Christyn before heading to the back to grab more bottles of kale juice for the counter. Lacie followed him back there to check on him. “Hey...you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“She’s a nightmare, isn’t she?”

“The worst.”

“Still, wasn’t it kind of hot when she called you a pig at the counter?”

“I didn’t like it. When I hear ‘pig,’ all I think about is cops, and I don’t have a great relationship with the cops.”

“I see. Sorry,” said Lacie. “Why don’t you break up with her?”

“Are we even together? We’ve been on two dates. Now she wants to say like I’m her man? Trippin’.”

After having a few drinks, Stella left early to return to McCarthy’s for the second half of a double while Christyn lingered behind. Glad for the opportunity to talk to her without Stella, Damian went over to her table and said, “How’s things?” Only, when he got a closer look at her, he guessed the answer was, not great. She was shaking like he hadn’t seen her do since they worked at the Capital, and she had barely touched her food. “Your eyes are all red.”

“I haven’t been sleeping well since Jesse won’t talk to me. If they start to turn yellow, that’s when to worry about me.”

“What?”

“Jaundice of the eyes is the first sign of cirrhosis of the liver.”

“The only word I understood of that was liver,” Damian admitted, “but I’m guessing this has something to do with alcohol?”

“I had a good system that worked: if I’m at work, I can’t be drinking. That’s the rule. But Libby just hired a bunch of people and we’ve all had our shifts cut. So now I’m down to three shifts a week, and on the days I’m off, I’ll try to find something to do...I’ll go swimming in the pool, or clean the house, but I’m running out of stuff to clean and in the end I’m caving and having a shot, but of course, once I have one shot, I want ten!”

“It’s gonna be okay, Christyn. C’mere.” He took her hand and pulled her to standing so he could hug her close. He’d never been a very physical, touchy person before he met her, but that part of her seemed to have rubbed off on him over time. As she clung to him tight, he gave her a squeeze, wishing he could transfer confidence into her through the contact of their bodies. He was beginning to hate Jesse for what he was doing to her. “You’re so strong. You were doing so good when we were at the Capital. You’ll get back there again.”

“Back then I had you to stay strong for.” Her breathing hitched; he could tell she had started to cry.

“What if whenever you feel like going on a binge, you just call my phone?” he suggested. “I’ll talk you through it until you go to sleep, okay? Would that help you?”

She nodded. “You’d really do that for me?”

“I would do anything for you.”

Closing time came, and Lacie handed Damian his share of the tip money for the day. “Hey, I want to talk to you about something,” she said. “I don’t think we should be fooling around anymore.”

“What? Why?” he asked. “Is it because of Stella? Because she really doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“I know...but Christyn does, doesn’t she? I saw the way you were with her. You love her. And I wouldn’t feel right if I let you settle for me.”

“She has a boyfriend, y’know.”

“And he sounds like a schmuck! He’s refusing to forgive her for one silly mistake! One of these days, she’s gonna wise up, and she’ll see you. Or else she’s going to look back and regret it for the rest of her life.”

“Thanks, Lacie.” She was right; he’d had fun with her, but even if he continued their affair, he’d still have Christyn in the back of his mind. That wouldn’t be fair to Lacie. All he could do, then, was wait and hope.

He counted out the money. That couldn’t be right...she’d given him $42. There wasn’t any more than $20 in the tip jar when he’d looked, and credit card tips came on their paychecks. “Did you remember to get your half?” he asked.

“Yeah. Stella paid in cash. And she racked up quite a tab; five drinks and she paid for Christyn’s food, too.”

“And she tipped how much?”

“Zip.”

“Then where did the money come from?"

“I’ve been here for a while; long enough to have the prices memorized,” Lacie explained. “Since you already heard her order, I didn’t ring her up. I just told her the price, took her payment, and slid the money under the register. Didn’t you notice that the ticket never printed in the kitchen?

“Me and the last guy who worked in the back used to do this every time someone paid in cash. I’d call the order, he’d make it without a ticket, and we’d split the winnings down the middle. Then Alexis started raising a stink about how sales didn’t match inventory, and he got cold feet and quit. Probably a smart move on his part. He was no fun to work with, anyway. Total health nut. But I’ve been looking for a new partner in crime. Think about it, Damian. We could pocket an extra thousands of dollars a week.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Damian. Christyn had invested so much energy trying to help him stay out of trouble with the law...was theft, even without a gun, something he wanted to consider in order to get ahead?

But a few days later when payday came and he opened up his check to see it only had $300 on it for two weeks’ hard work, his resolve to stay on the straight and narrow took a hit. His first check had been low, but he had assumed that was because he’d started in the middle of a pay period. With his second check looking like it did, he didn’t know how he was going to pay his rent...not to mention his debt to Christyn. As the shift began to slow down after the lunch rush, he approached Lacie at the counter and said, “You know that thing you asked me to do with you? Well, I’m in.”


	12. ELEVEN

**ELEVEN**

Monday, August 10: Libby gripped Christyn by the shoulder to stop her in the server station as she was walking with a tray of water for a family of four, nearly causing her to spill the whole thing. She had pre-filled the egg-cup glasses so she could drop them off along with a full bottle to buy herself time before she had to replace it. “That’s not the way we present waters here. And what is this?” she demanded, snatching the Styrofoam cup off of the tray. “Where did you get this?”

“From back storage. I had to tear the place down from floor to ceiling to find it, but--”

“I never want to see a Styrofoam cup in my restaurant again!”

“But it’s for a small child!”

“No exceptions!” snapped Libby, chucking it into the trash.

“That’s going to spill!” Christyn protested. “It’ll drip all over the floor when the busboy takes it out!” But Libby walked off, seeming not to hear her.

Wednesday, August 12: Shane was assigned to the cocktail area, right beside the bar with Estrella behind, who, predictably, wanted to yak his ear off about her new diet. He said he was alright when Christyn swung by to check up on him, but he kept muttering under his breath, Don’t let the capitalists win, and Christyn couldn’t bear to see him suffer. So she offered to switch sections with him and in the middle of the shift they were both pulled into Libby’s office and written up. She said there was a rhyme and reason to why she put them where she put them on the floor, but when Christyn asked her what it was, she icily ejected them from the room.

Thursday, August 13: Christyn was standing near the edge of her section, watching her guests dine and looking for signs that they needed attention, but all seemed well for now. All her food had landed, her waters were full, everyone was beginning their second round of drinks from the bar, and they were eating, but no one was close to done and in need of clearing. Getting bored, she decided to check up on the bar.

It was Felipe bartending today, with four barbacks at his beck and call, but the bar was busy enough that they might need a favor. “Hey Felipe,” called Christyn from the well, “¿necesitas ayuda?”

“Actually, yes; can you go in the back and get me a box of the cups that look like tetas?”

Christyn laughed. “You mean the coupe glasses? Gotcha.” After completing the requested task, she waited in the well for the reward she had come to expect from Felipe. Sure enough, he soon set down for her a rocks glass containing a demitasse spoon and a scoop of the mint chip gelato he used to make the Chocolate Covered Grasshopper, a mint chocolate martini of his own invention that had made its way onto the happy hour menu. “Gracias, Chinita.” Because when you lived in Texas, were any part Asian or at least Asian looking, and worked with Spanish speaking folks, your name was Chino or Chinita on the clock and you learned to like it.

“De nada, ¡mi amor! El gusto es mio.”

The pleasure really was hers. Felipe was always so nice to her. He was cute, too. Strong square jaw outlined by a thin and neatly manicured beard, determined brown eyes, stocky with an even distribution to his weight that suggested he had always been at least slightly thickset. His frame overall was as masculine as hers was feminine; while she had the dramatic curves, his shoulders were broad and limbs were thick and muscular to balance the curve and slight droop of a well-fed belly. (She found herself thinking they might have fit together well horizontally; was Damian right? Did she have a preference? Or was this simply Jesse’s fault for leaving her alone, at a lack for the touch of a big, strong man who could throw her around?) And when he clicked out his pocket knife to open the case of glasses she had brought him...oof! That thing had to be illegal. Somehow, she found that enticing. If she wasn’t a taken woman!

But even if she had been single, she had a strong suspicion Felipe was gay. He was one of the only male workers who wouldn't give Estrella the the time of day, even if it might benefit him, Estrella being the queen bee behind the bar. Christyn also caught him looking at Shane on the clock; wouldn’t Shane be pleased? He had mentioned at the bowling alley that he tended to prefer thicker men.

Christyn was in the middle of enjoying her gelato, eyes still on her section, when a cold hand closed around her shoulder. “What did we forget to do at table 45?” came Libby’s cold drawl.

“I don’t know, what did we forget?”

“They all have sides of pasta. You never ran cheese.”

“I preset the cheese before the food hit the table,” said Christyn, gesturing to the shaker of cheese she had left on the table.

“Where did you even find that?”

“Back storage.”

Libby shoved a grating wheel into her hand. “You use this from now on. Tableside, when you run food. And if I catch you stealing my gelato again, it’ll be the last time you eat in this town.”

Technically, she hadn’t stolen anything. Felipe had handed it to her. But she didn't want to get him in trouble, so she said nothing.

That night, she phoned Damian to vent about her day. He stayed on the line with her until she passed out from sheer exhaustion, but he kept her talking so much she never even had time to touch the bottle of cognac.

Sunday the 16th. At the end of pre-shift, Libby hauled a box into the back room and set it on a table. “I have a little task for you all to do today.” She started taking stout glass bottles out of the box, along with labels bearing the company logo. “These are the new olive oil bottles that are going to sit on the tables. I want you all to stick the new labels on them, fill them up with the oil from the old bottles, and leave the old bottles in the dish pit to be washed and sent back to the flagship location. Heather has been told not to sit you until all the bottles in your section are done, so best get to work!”

“Why are we doing this?” asked Shane as he worked at a frenetic pace in the next section over from Christyn’s. “What’s wrong with the old bottles?”

“The old labels say extra virgin olive oil and the stuff we’re pouring is 90% canola,” said Christyn.

“Really?”

“Yeah, it says so on the barrel in the back, but I guess most of the time we’re too occupied with unnecessary steps of service to notice the little things like that."

Monday, the 17th: Christyn was making small talk in Spanish with Marcos, her favorite barback, by the service well when Estrella approached her from behind the bar. “Hey, just a heads-up,” she said, “I wouldn’t let Libby catch you speaking Spanish on the clock. She might think you’re one of us and stick you in the ice box.”

“The ice box?”

“Haven’t you heard that? It’s what the whole staff calls the bar.”

“Why?”

Estrella rolled her eyes. “Think about it. ICE.”

“That’s terrible. You guys are terrible,” said Christyn.

Then, “Wait, shouldn’t I want a promotion to the bar?”

“Ay, no. You lose money behind the bar, having to share it with at least two barbacks every night. Yesterday I walked out with twenty bucks, and the day before, Luz said she left with seven.”

“Who’s Luz?”

“One of the other bartenders; you’ve never met her?”

“It’s hard to meet everyone when you only work three days a week.” Maybe that was why she hadn’t noticed anything strange about the demographics in the restaurant before Estrella pointed it out, but she was right. None of the Spanish speakers were servers, food runners, or even busboys. They were either behind the bar or in the kitchen.

“I’m telling you, something weird is going on here,” said Estrella. “Why the four ounce pours? Why the cheap bottles of wine? Why the ice box?”

On Thursday the 20th, Christyn learned the answer to that last question.

Midway through the shift, Shane came running up behind her. “You have a one-top call table at 63. That’s gonna impress Libby for sure; if people are coming back and asking for you, that’s proof that you’re delivering superior service!”

“I doubt it,” said Christyn. She worked so infrequently that she didn’t even bother to try and build regulars; even if someone asked for her the next time she came to the restaurant, she probably wouldn’t be there. Anymore, she was just an order taker, a cog in the machine. She clocked in, did her opening sidework, got her tables, ran her food, dropped her checks, got cut, did her closing sidework, went home, and called Damian. He was the only thing that made her smile these days. “Guy or girl?”

“Guy.”

“Jesse!” She smiled and ran to her section, thinking she was finally forgiven. Only, when she got there, it was Damian sitting alone at table 63. But she was just as happy to see him! “Sweet tea, two creamers?” she asked.

“Damn, you have a good memory!”

She fixed him his drink, and when she returned to the table, he sprung up and gave her a hug. It felt wonderful to be enveloped in his arms, and wonderful to see him looking so happy and healthy. He had gotten worrying thin again while he was struggling to find a job, but now, his figure had filled out with muscle once more, his cheeks rounded, his jawline softened. He held her tightly, and she found her mind wandering. Would he hold her like this in bed? Would he be sweet to her? (Oh, stop it, Christyn, you’re just lonely, she thought to herself. Jesse is coming back. One of these days.) As their hug broke apart, she clapped him on the shoulder. “Employment seems to be treating you well,” she said. “So what are you doing here?”

“I have a day off, wanted to see you.” 

“Do you know what you want?”

“Lemme do the filet, medium rare, with mashed potatoes and asparagus?”

“Okay, I’ll put it in for you.”

While they waited for the food to cook, they caught up. “How’s your boyfriend?”

“Nothing, still.”

“After all these weeks? That’s not nice. Maybe you should dump him.”

“But we’ve invested all this time into our relationship! But how are you and Estrella?”

“Who?”

“Oh, sorry, Stella.”

“We’re...okay. I wouldn’t really call us an item, though. We’re just talking.” He seemed hesitant with his response, but before Christyn could press him, a foodrunner appeared at the table with his order. “I’ll be right back. Enjoy!” she said, and did a walk through her section.

When she returned, Damian had barely touched his food, which was unlike him. She had always known him to have a hearty appetite when food was available, in fact, when she was cooking, she found it endearing. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Christyn. It’s just...terrible,” he said. “The steak is tough and everything else has a weird taste to it, like maybe it’s not fresh.”

“Don’t apologize, I’ll just send it back.”

“I don’t want to be ‘that guy’...”

“Don’t worry about it. Do you want anything else?”

“What do you like here?”

“To be honest, I haven’t tried anything at this location. I’m always over at Cafe Alexis with Estrella.”

“Maybe I should just go there,” said Damian. “I really only came here to see you...and to pay you back the money I owe you. I was gonna leave this for your tip. This’ll cover the sweet tea, right?” He handed her a plastic sandwich bag containing a brick of cash.

“Oh my God...you made this behind a counter?” she said, palming it. “And I told you not to worry about it.”

“And if you were a loan company, I probably wouldn’t, but you’re my best friend. Take it.”

She shoved it in her apron pocket, picked up the plate, and returned it to the line, where Libby was talking to the chef about next week’s specials. “If you’re unsure of where that goes, maybe you should read the ticket first before you run your food,” she said coldly.

“This actually got sent back,” said Christyn, fighting a battle not to snap. “He said the meat was tough and the sides didn’t taste fresh.”

Libby yanked the plate out of her hand. “What’s he drinking?”

“Iced tea, but I don’t see how that’s important.”

“You didn’t sell him a cocktail?”

“He’s under 21!” 

“Stupid girl!” Libby barked. “Look around you! All this restaurant, all this money...you think I don’t have the TABC bought off?”

Oh, that was it. Christyn was about to go off at last...but then, Libby handed the plate to the chef, who instructed one of the cooks, in Spanish, to take the steak and grind it down ‘with the others’ for a chili con carne that was to be tomorrow’s soup of the day. Her stomach turned, and for a moment, she was incapable of speech. When the nausea passed, all she could say was, “Dios mio,” and Libby stared straight at her, realizing with horror that she had understood everything.

On Saturday the 22nd, 7 PM found Christyn’s section empty, so she had resigned herself to helping Shane keep his two tables prebussed while a third came in. The new two-top, a couple of regulars, ordered a bottle of Santa Lucia pinot grigio, which went for at least $50 at the grocery store, but for some reason, was available here for $40.

“Here we have a lovely bottle of Santa Lucia,” said Shane, holding the bottle in front of a table linen for the gentleman at the table to see the label. “If I may make a suggestion, the soft floral and crisp apple notes would pair beautifully with one of our roasted chicken dishes.” As he spoke, he draped the linen over his left arm and held the bottle below the neck to twist in the corkscrew. His wine presentation had come a long way, and Christyn found herself beaming with pride watching him absolutely nail it.

Then…

CRACK!

As the sound of shattering glass hit her ears, Shane let out a yelp of pain and dropped the bottle. Christyn rushed over and caught it before it could hit the ground and cause even more of a safety hazard. “Shane, are you okay?” she asked, leading him away from the table.

He couldn’t speak. His eyes had gone wide and he was hyperventilating. His left hand bled profusely, but there was too much blood for Christyn to see where the cut was or if there was any broken glass in it.

Felipe had come out from behind the bar to see what the commotion was. “What happened?” His eyes darted from the broken bottle to Shane’s bleeding hand, and he swore under his breath, “Hijo de la puta madre.”

“Christyn!” It was Libby’s voice who barked her name, pulling her away from the boys roughly by the arm. “You useless thing! Don’t just let it drip!” She took the wine bottle from her and placed it in a plastic bucket she was holding. “We can special this out by the glass for happy hour tomorrow.” She sighed irritably and said, “I’ve never seen anyone screw up a wine presentation this badly.”

But it hadn’t been Shane’s fault. One look at the bottle told Christyn that much. The corkscrew has barely punctured the cork when pressure inside the bottle blew it out right below the neck, where Shane’s hand had been. That meant the wine had been bottled before its time, and had continued fermenting on the shelf, creating a time bomb of CO2 buildup inside the bottle.

Everything was starting to make sense. The cheap bottles? Libby was getting them cheap from a distributor who knew they were bad. The four ounce pours? She was getting her customers so drunk they wouldn’t notice the deplorable food quality. The ice box? She wanted all the Spanish speakers in the front of the house as far away from the kitchen as possible, so they wouldn’t overhear the disgusting things she was having her cooks do. The extra steps of service? Designed to keep the servers exhausted even on a three-day schedule, so they wouldn’t ask for more shifts. This way, Libby could keep everyone part-time and dodge having to offer health insurance. Nobody worked consecutive days; Christyn would be willing to wager that Libby ran the same specials for days in a row to get rid of old leftovers.

Everyone who worked here was nothing but a cog in Libby’s machine. She didn’t care if they starved, or if they bled.

Off to the side, Felipe had wrapped an arm around Shane’s shoulders and was squeezing as if to hold him together. “You have to breathe, mijo.”

“You can’t really be thinking of serving that,” Christyn said to Libby. “It could have broken glass in it.”

“You really want to stand here and argue with me?” said Libby. “Fine! You can be cut for the night. Go ahead and drive your friend to the hospital, if you’re competent enough to manage that.” She walked away muttering, “Best of the best nothing. Can’t even open a bottle of wine...Dad, I’m gonna kill you.”

On Tuesday the 25th, Christyn gave up her shift to another server so she could go to an interview for ABC Hospitality, a temping agency that specialized in banquet and bar service for concerts, sports matches, and catered events. One job wasn’t cutting it anymore; if she kept working 3-day weeks and $30 shifts, month-to-month expenses would start cutting deep into her emergency fund. She was a little nervous about the interview, especially after she read on the application that the company reserved the right to breathalyze its employees at any time, but Damian had expressed an utmost confidence in her over when they spoke over the phone the previous night.

And when she walked out of the office of Abigail Carter, Head Staffing Manager, with her I-9 signed and an assignment already to bartend at an auto show at the convention center on Thursday, her phone vibrated as a text came in from Damian:

So, when u start that new gig?

She smiled and sent a reply: Thank you for always believing in me. Thursday btw

On Wednesday the 26th, Christyn checked the floor map at the host stand to see that Libby had placed her behind the bar. “That’s not right...it should be Estrella, no?”

“Stella won’t be making it to work for a while. She’s been in a car accident,” explained Joe, the floor manager, as he made a few last-minute changes to sections. “Apparently, the driver was drunk and the passenger’s side airbag wouldn’t deploy. I kept telling her she was losing too much weight on that stupid diet...you women are crazy. Always coming up with some new way to starve your tits off.”

Christyn’s heart sank. “Is she okay?” She had predicted being moved to the bar soon, but she had hoped she’d be able use the opportunity to tip Estrella off on everything she’d learned about the restaurant while working the floor. Maybe they could all organize and leverage with Libby for better schedules. But now…

“She’s torn her diaphragm and fractured her knee. She’ll be out of the hospital in a few days, but it might be weeks until she can come back to work. In the meantime, Libby wants you as the new bar babe, though God knows why.”

Thursday at the convention center, things went off without a hitch, and on Friday the 28th, Jesse surprised her by having a seat at the corner of the bar. It was all she could do to keep from getting out from behind the bar and jumping into his arms, but she knew he wouldn’t like that. Instead, she fixed him his cola with light ice and set it down at the corner of his place setting. “It’s certainly a delight to finally see you in, Sir.”

“I figured you’ve been punished long enough.”

A shiver ran down her spine. “I must apologize for my transgression; you see, Sir, I fell off the wagon.”

“I know," said Jesse. “When I didn’t hear from you, Auralee’s bar was the first place I checked.”

Nothing in your head is a secret from me, he told her all the time.

“But tell me, how have you been keeping in my absence, kitten?”

At that, she spilled her guts, telling him every horrible thing that had happened at this restaurant so far. “Thank goodness I got a second job,” she finished.

“I heard; ABC Hospitality, is it?”

Her jaw dropped in awe. “Did Damian tell you?”

“No; while I have your protege’s contact information, we haven’t communicated. However, one of my former submissives works for them. Lily Cable, I believe, is her married name now. She mentioned to me she had seen your name on a sign in sheet. It’s a good company. I’m happy for you, slave. Now, I had meant to order the filet, but after everything you’ve told me, I think I’ll pass.”

“Perhaps once I get off, we can visit Damian at Cafe Alexis? The Southwestern Wrap is divine. Or...we can go back to my place, and I can cook? I’ve cleaned the apartment, I think you’ll like it. And, of course, afterwards I’ll be at your absolute disposal.”

Jesse, of course, chose the latter.

On Tuesday the first of September, Auralee came calling.

She was delighted to learn Christyn had been ‘promoted’ to the bar and demanded to be served whatever new fruity cocktail she had come up with lately. Christyn fixed her a new drink she had been working on, the “pineapple upside down cake in a glass,” and rung it in under the spill tab (it wasn’t theft if she accounted for it, right?) but cut her off after one.

“Aww, why?”

“Four-ounce pours.”

“Nice!”

“You say that now, but wait till I tell you the reason.”

They talked for a while as Auralee sipped her drink, until finally, she asked, “How’s Damian?”

“I’m starting to think you have a crush on him,” said Christyn.

“Heavens no. But I do like him for you.”

“Well, I haven’t heard from him for the last few days, which is strange. We’ve been talking a lot. Every day almost. But suddenly it’s radio silence.”

“Here, let me check on him.” Auralee pulled out her phone to run a search. “What’s his last name?”

“Mendez.”

“Alright, Mendez-comma-Damian. Oh? Here we are...oh no. Middle name Dyon, turns nineteen on the 11th?”

“I don’t know.”

“Physical profile sounds like our guy. Black hair brown eyes, Latino, 5’8”, 140--really? Maybe soaking wet…”

“Where are you reading this?”

“The office of the Harris County District Clerk, criminal record database,” said Auralee. “I’m so sorry, Chrissy.” She laid her phone down on the bar top for Christyn to see. “He’s in Big Baker on a charge of DWI.”


	13. TWELVE

**TWELVE**

The look on Christyn’s face when Damian paid her back said it all. No one would believe he had made all that money working in a restaurant. And when Alexis did inventory...fuck, fuck, fuck.

He couldn’t talk to Christyn about this. It would break her heart to know that he’d so easily thrown away everything she had taught him about being an honest worker. But bottling it up was driving him insane. He was messing up at work, spilling drinks and bumping into things from a lack of sleep, and he was stress-eating. Not that Lacie seemed to mind catching him shoving whole tortillas smothered in ranch in his mouth after she’d already brought him lunch (the sexual element to their friendship was gone, but she still made a point of bringing him good, filling food so he wouldn’t be distracted by hunger at work, and it was a lucky thing, because he was distracted enough already by guilt.)

As she picked up on his anxiety, she began to offer him words of comfort on shift: “Everything’s going to be fine. No one will find out...I already tilted the camera away from the register. We’ll be careful. We’ll quit while we’re ahead and get a new job together so we can do it all over again.” She was so sure of herself...Damian’s confidence, however, didn’t improve.

Stella came in one day and noticed immediately that he was off-color. “Have you slept?” she asked.

“Barely. I’ve been stressed.”

“That’s not good for you! Lack of sleep triggers cortisol production. It’s a stress hormone, and it makes you gain weight like crazy!”

She said, “You need a drink. That will rectify your sleeping schedule. I can get us a bottle of vodka, you’ll just have to pick me up after work, my car is in the shop.”

As sick and tired as he was of hearing anything and everything about weight loss from Stella, he definitely wanted a drink, or very many drinks. “Sure, when do you get off?”

By the time he picked up Stella, his nerves were fried. He took her home to his apartment in the far Southwest of the city and couldn’t even wait for her to shake the vodka over ice; he just downed it warm and chased it with some water he poured into his cup from the tap, and it hurt like Hell, but afterwards the buzz immediately started to set in and he was finally able to relax.

“Mind telling me what's got you so wound up?” she asked, inviting herself to a seat on the couch and turning the TV on. “Is it that girl from Cafe Alexis? She isn’t making any unwanted passes at you, is she?” 

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” He helped himself to another shot, this time chugging water directly from the faucet in the kitchen while the vodka was still in his mouth to lessen the burn as it went down his throat. He brought the bottle into the living room, along with two glasses of water, and set it all down on the table. “I just...well, she convinced me to start stealing from work, and I’m getting really paranoid that I might get caught.”

“Then just don’t get caught,” said Stella.

“But what if I do, though? I’ll go back to jail and when I get out, if I don’t catch another charge in there, no one will hire me. I’ll have to go back to hitting licks to survive, and then I’ll just go in and out of jail for the rest of my life unless I can join the French Foreign Legion!”

“The what?”

“This military branch in France, Christyn had an ex-boyfriend in it, I looked it up and apparently it pays well and they don’t care about your criminal record.”

“Look, nobody is going to France, okay?” Stella said sternly. “It’ll be fine...you’re just stressed. Have another shot.” She poured it for him and held it to his lips, offering him water immediately afterwards. It was starting to burn less with every shot...and she kept them coming. She was being so generous...usually, she was on him about every indulgence, not that he ever listened. Maybe calories didn’t count if they came from vodka?

By the time they had finished the bottle, he was feeling hazy. His face was numb and he sank happily into the couch cushions. It was nice. Even breathing felt good. He could see why Christyn had gotten addicted. “Shit,” Stella swore. “I have work in the morning. Take me home?”

That was the last thing he remembered.

In the morning, he woke up in the intake tank.

***

Estrella lived in a modest two-bedroom, one bathroom house on 31st-and-a-half, along with her twin sister, Isabela, who preferred Bella. Bella was fat and jovial and Christyn liked her immediately when she came calling to check on Estrella, bottle of vodka and box of homemade lemon cookies in hand--Rosa and Maria had raised her never to come to somebody’s house empty handed, and it was a rule that had stuck with her.

“Your nails are so pretty, who does them?” asked Bella as she led Christyn into the kitchen and let her set down her things on the counter.

“I do them myself. I buy the packs of 100 for five bucks and paint them.” She didn’t consider herself very good, but her hands were much steadier nowadays. Right now she had on red nails, but she usually did rose gold, with some glitter as a top coat if she felt like it.

Bella took Christyn’s hand in hers over the counter. “You did these yourself? Impressive! If you ever want designs though, I work at a nail shop on Hammerly. First time customer discount, twenty dollars!” She waved her nails in front of Christyn’s face; they were beautiful, purple ombre with a gradient coat of gold glitter and swirls done in black.

“Those are lovely! But I can’t wear anything so elaborate, they’d just get messed up at work. I’m sure you understand.”

That’s when Estrella hobbled into the room on crutches. “Christyn, you’re here! And you’ve brought drinks!”

“And refreshments!” She popped open the box of cookies while Bella took a trio of plates from a cabinet.

“Oh, not for me. Maybe this one, though. You know, we were identical at birth? But of course, she can’t put the fork down…”

“The little stick bug loves to tell me how to live, for someone who was kicked out of Westpoint.”

“¡Ay! Leave me alone!”

“You started it.”

“You did start it,” Christyn agreed. “And I made these especially for you; they are Keto and you’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t at least try one!”

Estrella reluctantly took a cookie, conceded that it was pretty good, and fixed herself a stiff vodka soda. “Don’t you have any juice?” asked Christyn. She was still unsure what this ‘Keto’ diet really was; she’d looked up the cookie recipe online but that was the extent of her research.

“Topo Chico?” Estrella offered.

“It’ll have to do,” said Christyn as she fixed herself a vodka soda, quarter strength. The girls took their drinks into Estrella’s room, a darkly decorated space with blackout curtains on the windows, a camo bedspread, and a flag on the wall bearing the words COME AND TAKE IT and the silhouette of some sort of rifle. Estrella collapsed into her computer chair, pouting.

“I hate being out of work! Even more, though, I hate not being able to work out.”

Christyn winced. She had a lingering suspicion that Estrella had been with Damian when she got injured, but she didn’t want to bring it up. She didn’t know whether Estrella would be as worried about him as she was, or upset with him for putting her life on standby. Either reaction would have been understandable, but just in case Estrella did begrudge him, Christyn didn’t want to hear about it. Her heart was hurting too much for him to hear a bad word about him, even if he was an idiot for driving drunk.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about work,” said Christyn, settling onto the corner of the bed. “You were absolutely right about that restaurant. Libby McCarthy is up to no good.” With that, she spilled every detail of what she’d discovered in Estrella’s absence from the re-used food to the exploding wine bottle. “I wanted to tell you at work on our next shift together, but then you got your knee broke and Libby put me in the ice box.”

“She re-uses sent-back food? That’s disgusting!” squeaked Estrella. “We need to call the health department! Or, better yet...threaten to call the health department, and use it as a bargaining chip for better conditions!”

“I thought about that, I really did,” said Christyn. “But then I remembered something Libby said to me. She has the TABC bought off; I’m sure she has the health inspector in her pocket, too.”

“So what are we gonna do?”

“Make what money we can and be on the lookout for better jobs, I guess.”

“What money, for me? I’m off my feet for six weeks, at least.”

“I know, and I was thinking about that. The Cannon Distillery is holding a bartending contest in November. Now that I’m a bartender, I was going to enter...but then I thought, you could use the prize money more than I can, seeing as how this injury is putting a dent in your finances. And, since I’m friends with the owner, I’m poised to sweet talk my way onto the panel of judges.”

“You’d really do that for me?”

“Of course! You’ve always had my back at the restaurant. Be a dick move of me not to get yours.”

***

“You have a fifteen-top at eleven thirty in the cocktail section; I hope you’re ready!” said Libby with a mean smirk as Christyn dusted off the bottles in the well for the fourth time this morning. Business had been slowing down since she had become a bartender; once in a while she ‘forgot’ to overpour the drinks and the customers, not being wasted enough to ignore how terrible the food was, sent it back, never to return.

In addition to this, she was neglecting to ring up sodas and teas. She was redefining the meaning of ‘extra lemons’ when a customer ordered them. She gouged Libby any way she could. For Christyn, it was an act of retaliation for every insult and belittlement the woman put her through on the clock.

For different motivations, Felipe began to adopt the same techniques. Christyn had shared with him and everyone else all of Libby’s terrible business practices, and he blamed her, rightly so, for Shane’s grievous injury. He wanted to cut her like she had cut Shane.

With the resulting decline and business, staff had to be cut, and the AM bartender was now responsible for the cocktail tables as well as the bar. As Marcos and Alvaro, the barbacks, put the tables together, Christyn thought to herself that it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

Soon, the fifteen-top trickled in. They were all very well-mannered and well-dressed, politely ordering waters, please, with ice, or no ice, or lemons, or no lemons, and there, at seat 8…

Christyn struggled to put a name to the face, but with some effort, she dug it up out of her memory banks. “Paul?”

“Chris?”

Christyn smiled in delight.

Paul Slater was the youngest in the group by a fair margin. He had been her high school crush, before being forced out of her home drove her to drop out of high school and look for work. At home, Chester had drawn her into his orbit, but at school, Paul had been her comfort. He was her favorite member of their study group, always ready with a joke to lighten the mood, and he was calculated enough to beat her about half the time at chess, even after she stopped letting him win. He still wore his hair the same way--parted to the side and gelled--but he had halved his weight in the years since she had known him, making her fail to recognize him at first. 

(Was Damian right? Did she have a preference for heavyset gentlemen? Either way, Paul was a bad example. Christyn had admired him for his wit and his humor back in the day, and never taken his weight into account. Could she have fallen for a thin guy? Sure. But she had wanted Paul, though they were only ever friends.)

“What brings you and your fourteen friends out this morning?”

“We’re with the environmental lobby. We’ve just won a major victory in the city, and we wanted to come out and celebrate!”

“That’s wonderful news!” said Christyn, clapping her hands together with a hop-in-place of glee.

“So, what appetizers do you recommend?”

“Well, before anything else, I’m going to recommend a couple of happy hour bottles of wine for the table, in light of the occasion. Who drinks red, and who drinks white?”

“Is it happy hour already?” asked the lady at the head of the table.

“Not technically, but for you guys, I’ll pour ‘em. It’s for the environment!” She didn’t want to get them hammered on the technically illegal martinis, but she did want them buzzed enough to actually enjoy the awful food, now that they were here. Could she have used them as an opportunity to expose the restaurant for what it was? Sure, but she would rather Paul and his colleagues have a good time.

Wine flowed, lunch was ordered, and before the end of the meal, Christyn dropped off a whole round of brownies that came complimentary to guests celebrating a birthday.

“Did you want a plastic sack for your box?” asked Christyn as she brought one of the gentlemen his change and his leftovers in a brown paper box.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

“Thank goodness! You know, I asked someone that last week, and he had the nerve to deride me for it! Said I should have brought him one automatically, and that I was being ‘too sensitive,’ and that back in his day people used to throw plastic sacks in the bayou all the time, like it was acceptable! Now I know most pollution of the waterways is oil and gas and commercial fishing, but can you believe some people?”

“I didn’t know you were also passionate about the environment, Miss…?”

“Oh, Christyn’s always been passionate! She even runs a blog about climate change,” said Paul.

Christyn blushed. “I haven’t posted to it in a while. But it’s still up, if anyone wants the link I guess I can write it on the back of your receipt.”

The environmental lobbyists finished paying their tabs and left one by one. Paul was the last to leave. Lingering in the entryway while Christyn stood with her back to the door to hold it open, he said, “I’m glad I got a chance to see you again, Christyn. To tell you the truth, I was head over heels for you back when we were in school.”

“No kidding? I was enamored with you! Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Are you serious? You were so far out of my league! You were so attractive--still are attractive. Jesus, you haven’t changed a bit, and me? I was always the fat guy.”

“That’s crazy. I always thought you were out of my league.”

“Why on Earth would you think that?”

“Well, for one thing, you finished our sophomore year as valedictorian,” said Christyn. “Everyone knew you were going to do great things.”

“But the extra weight--”

“Never bothered me,” she cut him off. “You were soft. You gave the best hugs.” His nose wrinkled at that and she added, “Not that I’m trying to invalidate your efforts. If this is what makes you happy, then of course, I’m happy for you! But you’ll always be the same Paul inside, whether the scale says 150 or 300.”

“Thanks, Christyn,” said Paul. “You might change your mind about that, though, if you experienced what I could do to you, now that I don’t get out of breath so easily."

She flushed crimson at the implication. He leaned closer, close enough for her to smell the wine on his breath...but before he could make a move, or she could stammer that she was spoken for, one of the women in his group called from the parking lot, “Slater, what are you waiting for? We carpooled!”

“Call me,” he said, and tucked his business card into the breast pocket of her oxford shirt.

***

Shane returned to work with twenty stitches from the center of his palm to the junction between his forefinger and thumb. Though he insisted he was fine to work, she did all of his wine service all shift, not wanting his stitches to open up tableside.

“I’m surprised you came back,” she said as they were printing their checkout reports. “I don’t plan on sticking around for much longer. Not with Libby running the place like she does.”

“I don’t like it either,” said Shane. “I can’t even file worker's comp, because she threatened to fire me if I did. But who else is going to hire me, with a charge pending?”

“You’d be surprised! Just the other day I was at the Houston Symphony with the agency...as we’re breaking down, one of the cashiers screams at this busser to get out of her way, and he was like, ‘I ain’t tryna be in nobody’s way, I got warrants!’” She chuckled at the memory. “That guy’s a pretty cool cat, too. Name’s L’vonte, I worked with him again yesterday at the convention center. He snatched a few potatoes from the kitchen and invited me to his apartment to try his potato soup. We’re supposed to do shrimp Alfredo at my place next week. Anyway, you’d like it at the agency. There’s a few problematic personalities, but otherwise, most everyone is chill, and it’s easy money. Free food sometimes, too. They always feed us at the Symphony. You can use me as a reference, if you want.”

“Thanks, Christyn, but it was stressful enough to learn the bus route here. Having to take the bus to multiple venues sounds like a nightmare, and I couldn’t ask Felipe to drop me off all the way downtown. I even feel bad having him pick me up to take me here, even if we are kind of seeing each other.” With a sigh, he added, “I’m gonna miss you when you do leave. I’ll still have Felipe, but you’re just about the only other good thing about this place.”

***

Christyn had seventeen missed calls over the course of a few days from a number she didn’t recognize. They had all come when she was at work, until finally, whoever calling managed to catch her on her day off, while she was eating ramen noodles with a homemade spinach and avocado pesto in bed and flipping through the latest issue of Food and Wine, which she had received a subscription to after filling out an online survey. She picked it up, hoping it would be one of the jobs she had recently applied to, although she didn’t hold out much hope. Nobody would be that persistent at trying to hire a server or bartender; they would simply move on to the next candidate.

The automated message on the line told her that someone in the Harris County Penal System was trying to reach her, and would she please enter a valid credit card number to accept the collect call.

She scrambled for her credit card and punched in the number. “Christyn! Thank God, finally!” said Damian once the call was connected.

“Damian, what took you so long?”

“I don’t know your number by heart. I had to call my boy Weezy and get him to get someone at my job to get it from someone at your job...shit took forever.”

“At least you got through!” said Christyn. “Listen, now that you’ve got me, how much money do you need, and what do I have to do to bail you out?”

“I was actually gonna stay in here,” said Damian. “I just called to see...how you were doing.”

“What? Why?”

“Stella was in the car with me...I don’t remember anything from the drive except the sound of ambulances, and they told me I blew 0.15. 0.15! Just thinking about what I might have done...I think I have to sit here and pay for it. Stella’s kind of bitchy, but I never wanted to hurt her, or God forbid, kill her.”

“She’s fine!” said Christyn. “Her kneecap is fractured, but she’ll be back to work in a few weeks. Now stop being a self-appointed martyr and tell. Me. How. Much.”

“I can’t take any more of your money, Christyn. Not after all you’ve already done for me. But you never answered my question.”

“Question?”

“Are you doing okay?”

Christyn hesitated. In truth, she was miserable...but she didn’t want to give him her own problems to stress about; she was sure he was under enough stress already. “I’m fine...I made some friends at work and even ran into one of my old high school buddies. I’d be better if I had my best friend back, though. Won’t you please reconsider letting me bail you out?”

After a long pause, he offered a compromise. “How about I call my sister? It’ll take a while to get a hold of her, I already know. But she has the money, or at least her third husband does.”

“Atta boy.” Christyn smiled. “Let me know as soon as you’re back on the outside!”


	14. THIRTEEN

**THIRTEEN**

Between two jobs, October flew by in a daze for Christyn, ending in a wild Halloween party that Felipe threw at his apartment as a ploy to divert attendance from Libby’s staff party at the restaurant that she held on the same day.

Defiantly, Christyn showed up at the restaurant, snickering at the party’s pathetic attendance as she strode through the door in a black A-line halter dress that used to be Auralee’s back when she had hovered around 180, which had been a good weight for her towering height, but that mother of hers was impossible to please. On her head, she wore a black spherical hat. The costume was meant to be a visual pun: she was a pawn. That’s what they all were at this restaurant.

“Christyn, I didn’t think you’d come!”

“Oh, I can’t stay. I’m headed to Felipe’s; I just needed my check.”

The scowl on Libby’s face was priceless.

Soon, it was time for the Cannon Distillery’s cocktail competition. Christyn and Estrella got their shifts covered before the event and headed to the distillery in different cars so as not to appear as co-conspirators.

The competition took place in the bar area of the distillery, the eight judges seated at the barstools while 30 bartenders from all over the greater Houston area got behind the bar, one after the other, and put together a cocktail featuring Cannon’s 30-year bourbon, with a plethora of mixers, garnishes, and liqueurs at their disposal.

It hadn’t taken much effort to convince Roger to put Christyn on the judges’ panel, and as a late applicant, Estrella was close to the end of the lineup. In the days before the competition, the two women had hashed out a game plan.

Christyn was slightly buzzed from sampling upwards of 20 drinks by the time Estrella took the bar and created a cocktail featuring the bourbon shaken with Irish cream, cranberry juice, grenadine, and a dash of creme de violette, which she strained into a coupe glass and topped with champagne before fishing it with a brown-sugared egg-white froth that threatened opulently to spill over the sides of the glass, but precariously held its shape. The drink was beautiful, and the other judges were all but hammered by this point, having finished each of their samples while Christyn had taken only a small sip every time. Estrella made the drink again and poured it into 8 shot glasses for the judges, spooning the froth on top before distributing the shots.

The drink tasted horrible, reminiscent of antacid syrup, but the other judges were too drunk to realize it. Christyn had predicted this, and had advised Estrella to make the prettiest, most impressive-looking drink she could manage and wow the panel while their minds were softened by alcohol and easily dazzled by visuals. Christyn wrote Estrella’s name at the top of a fresh score card and gave her perfect marks for flavor, texture, creativity and presentation, all while saying things to the others like, “How brave of her, to combine fruit and cream in a bourbon-based drink. It sure beats doing the same with boring old vodka!” and, “The brown sugar really brings this cocktail into the decade, and the combination with the cranberry and the sweetness of the grenadine make it a perfect one for the fall season!”

Estrella left the distillery with a smirk, a plaque for her wall, and a check for $5000.

In the wake of the success of their scheme, Christyn and Estrella decided to celebrate with a party to rival all others. When Christyn made mention of her plan to Jesse, he suggested they hold the party at his house in Spring, so that he might keep an eye on her and make sure she didn’t get too intoxicated.

This all worked out for Christyn, as Jesse’s house was spacious, lovely, well-lit with natural light from the windows, had a huge backyard, and would be perfect to accommodate all of her and Estrella’s friends.

She was at the house, getting ready in one of the many spare bedrooms for the guests’ arrival, when the call came in from Damian. “Yo, whaddup? Sis finally came through, what you doing?” He sounded slurred. Intoxicated? She supposed she would get intoxicated, too, if she had just gotten out of jail.

“I’m getting ready for a party. I’d love for you to come! I can text you the address, wire you some money for a ride…”

“I got you on the ride. Car might be totaled, but I still have a few bucks left over from the cafe. Yeah, text it to me, I want to see you!”

She did, before returning to her makeup and hair. She had it up in a loose, off-center updo low by the nape of her neck, letting a few stray curls hang loose along with the fringe in the front. Her lips were painted a deep burgundy and her eyes were lined in a way that made them look “Chinesey,” according to a few white coworkers, but she liked the elongated look of them. Her curvy body was sheathed with a long, lacy black dress she’d bought at the thrift store for seventeen dollars, which probably clung to her tummy more than Jesse would have preferred, but there was little that could be done about that. Back in the day, he had wanted her to wear a corset to “shrink her waist and make her an even more perfect dolly for Master,” but she had hard-limited that, worried about the corset impeding her at work, and now that she had spinal issues, it was no longer an option.

The dress also hugged her rounded derriere and put her generous cleavage on display. Satisfied that she looked good, she pinned a black silk flower to the side of her bun and made her way downstairs.

The guests were already starting to come in. There was Shane and Felipe, and L’vonte from ABC, and a bunch of Estrella’s friends, Jesse’s friends, too, and then, finally, Damian.

“You invited him?” asked Estrella, looking exquisite in a little green sequined off-the-shoulder number.

“Yeah, why not?”

“I was just worried he’d be mad at me, seeing as I landed him in jail.”

“Well, it’s not like you did it on purpose.”

Estrella was already a few drinks in, and a flush of shame rose in her cheeks to betray her.

“What? Why?”

“He had gotten involved in an embezzlement scheme at work and had a sudden attack of conscience! He started talking all crazy, saying he was going to go off and join the French Foreign Legion...I had to think on my feet! You understand, right? I thought if I got him drunk and made him take me home, they’d pull him over and only hold him for a few days, and then he wouldn’t be allowed to leave the county, at least until court...it would give him a chance to calm down...I didn’t think it would be weeks and weeks--”

“Yeah, well, I guess you didn’t count on it being his second offense,” Christyn spat.

“You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

“No...you are.”

***

Naturally, the first thing Damian did when he got home was score some weed. The second thing he did was slip a neighbor $20 to buy him some vodka. He didn’t even like vodka, but there were things he wanted to forget for the moment, hard edges of his experience that he wanted to sand down to dullness. The third thing he did was phone Christyn, and how happy was he to hear that she was having a party, and he was invited! That meant more booze, and probably something decent to eat, too. It had been too long since he’d eaten anything that didn’t make him want to throw up.

The driver from the rideshare app dropped him off in front of an enormous house in Spring, and as he stumbled through the door, Christyn spotted him instantly and made a beeline.

She. Looked. Amazing.

Her flowing black dress accentuated every curve of her beautiful silhouette and made her skin seem to glow. He wondered what the occasion might be, but then he looked around at the house, at all the flowers in the decor and the servers holding trays of champagne, at all the people dressed nice, and back at Christyn and thought to himself that of course she would get married in black.

“Damian, Estrella has something to tell you.”

What, that she had caught the bouquet?

“Well damn, don’t a man get to eat first?” he slurred.

“...On second thought, that is a good idea. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

“Maaaaaybe.”

She led him outside, practically having to support him, he was so unsteady on his feet. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s no trouble, you--Jesus--you barely weigh anything.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. She sat him down at one of the tables in the huge backyard under twinkling string lights and was gone for a minute before she returned to set before him a plate piled high with toothpicked little meatballs and sausages, pastries of every kind, and mini cupcakes. “You don’t have to finish it all, I probably got carried away. I just assumed...well, you must be famished!”

He was, but he was such a drunk mess that he had to eat slowly, as much trouble as he was having actually getting each bite into his mouth. “How much did you drink?” asked Christyn as she watched him struggle. “Don’t tell me I’m going to have to feed you…”

As much alcohol as he had coursing through his bloodstream, popping a boner was out of the question, luckily for him, because now was not the appropriate time. “I wish you had told me sooner,” he said.

“So, you figured it out.”

“It’s pretty obvious,” he said. “I’m happy for you.” Even if he didn’t approve of her choice of a husband.

“Wait...are we talking about the same thing?”

Just then, Jesse strode up behind Christyn, wrapping his arm possessively around her waist. “How are you enjoying the festivities, kitten?”

In a sudden moment of clarity, Damian absolutely fucking lost it.

He sprung out of his seat, clutching the back of the chair for support. “Well, if it ain’t the man of the hour! The luckiest man on Earth!” he slurred.

He’d had a lot of time to think in jail about all of the suspicious little things he ever noticed about Christyn’s relationship, and now that he was out, he had to call Jesse on it once and for all. It was just a tragedy that he was too late.

“And way luckier than you deserve! It was good of Christyn to still marry you after you left her alone for months! And the lock pick she found in her house? We really breaking and entering now?”

“Damian, what are you talking about?” asked Christyn, but he was on a roll.

“What about the bruises and the cuts? She tried to make excuses for you, but she ain’t got no cats. And the slipped discs in her back?”

“I’d strongly suggest you shut up about things you know nothing about, boy,” said Jesse, his eyes narrowing, one fist balling at his side, but Damian wasn’t intimidated. There was a reason they called it liquid courage.

“You say you’re into BSDM or whatever it’s called, but you’re nothing but an abusive creep! Probably addicted to anime porn. Every time we talk about the day you guys met, she has a different story. What’s up with that? I just hope you haven’t brainwashed her into this marriage, because she's smarter than you give her credit for, and the day she figures you out, that’s the day you’ll be fucking sorry.” He took a champagne glass off a passing waiter’s tray. “It’s too bad. Christyn Markham kind of got a ring to it,” he said, raised the glass, and downed it.

He should not have done that.

Maybe the champagne hit him wrong, or maybe he had drank far too much already. Whatever the case, over the course of the next few seconds, he dropped the empty glass, which hit the grass with a dull, disappointing thud, bent double, and vomited all over Christyn’s shoes.

He hadn’t even caught his breath before Jesse punched him, hard and square in the face.

The blow knocked him to his back on the ground. In an instant, Christyn was at his side, helping him sit up. “Hold still. You’re bleeding profusely from the nose and mouth,” she said, dabbing at the blood with a linen napkin from one of the tables. She didn’t need to tell him; he was all too familiar with the metallic taste of his own blood. “My god, Jesse. Look what you’ve done.”

“Kitten, you understand, right?” said Jesse in this slow, sweet tone that sounded almost hypnotic. “Your friend is obviously confused; I needed to knock some sense into him.”

But for the first time, Christyn was having none of it. Whatever spell Jesse had her under seemed to have worn off. That sense of a worshipping air she always seemed to hold around him was gone, giving way to a slow boil of rage. Still on her knees at Damian’s side, she turned to fix Jesse with a glare. “You can do what you want to me...you can even convince me to like it...but the moment you lay hands on my best friend, you’ve blown it. My lease is up at the end of the month. When I leave, do not look for me.”

“Kitten, let’s be reasonable. It’s because of me you’re even functional today; surely you don’t want to--”

“Dump you in your own home in front of everybody? I believe I just did.” She took Damian’s hand and stood. “C’mon, buddy, you need to get up.”

He staggered to his feet with her help, following her back through the house and to her car in the driveway. Inside, it was even more of a mess than her apartment, with empty cans of lemon soda and scraps of paper all over the floor. “Sick whip,” he said sarcastically as she keyed the ignition.

“Yeah, the AC doesn’t work and the doors don’t lock, but at least she starts.”

“So what are you gonna do, get it annulled?”

Christyn laughed. “I wasn’t getting married. Estrella won a bartending contest.”

“Oh. So that’s what the party was about,” he said. “Hey, sorry about your shoes.”

“Don’t sweat it. I bought them at Goodwill for a dollar,” she replied. “You got health insurance?”

“What do you think?”

“Guess the hospital’s out, then.” She made her way to the end of the street and turned left, heading for the service road. “It’s no problem, I can just fix you up at my place. I happen to know liquor is a great general anaesthetic. How does a bottle of water and another two to three shots sound, along with a nice warm meal to hold them down?”

“Perfect. Just perfect.”

***

Restaurant owners loved to staff up in the months leading up to Christmas, and despite dwindling business, Libby McCarthy was no exception. The first half of November saw her hire no less than twelve new servers and three new barbacks.

She had kept Christyn in the ice box even after Estrella returned to work, which was nice, because it meant they never worked shifts together. Christyn was spending most of her downtime wishing she could tear Estrella’s face off for what she had done to Damian. The image of him drunk to dull the pain and so worryingly, achingly thin was burned into the back of her mind. She wished she could be with him 24/7, to care for him, to wait on him hand and foot until there was no doubt in her mind that both his body and his soul had recovered from his latest stint in county jail.

But there was always more work to be done. The temp agency was sending her more and more assignments, which she accepted whenever she could. She needed to find a new apartment soon, and wanted to pad her account with every possible dollar she could grab so the security deposit wouldn’t put a dent in her emergency fund.

Towards the middle of the month, Abigail called her into the central office for a meeting in person.

“Am I in trouble?” asked Christyn as she tiptoed into the office.

“Absolutely not! On the contrary, I have a lucrative offer for you!” said Abigail. “Our agency has been contracted for the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo next Spring, to staff bartenders to the club level of the stadium! Now, seeing as they only have 40 spots for us, I wanted to reserve the assignment for our best of the best, and honey, that’s you.”

“Me? Really?”

“Christyn, listen to what some of our clients have to say about you.” She pulled something up on her laptop screen and read aloud: “‘Christyn is the epitome of a hard worker and has no objection to staying late to ensure the job is done.’ That’s from the convention center. ‘Christyn is always eager to help her team. It’s a delight to have her in the building. Please send her back as frequently as possible.’ That’s from Jones Hall. ‘Christyn Brandywine is a delight to work with; she is quick to take direction but also excels independently. I hope that you’ll forward me her contact information, as I would love to hire her on a more permanent basis.’ That’s from Sarah, from BBVA Compass Plaza. I hope you’ll forgive me for withholding your info; I’m a little selfish, you see. I’d like to keep you.”

“I have no qualms there, if it means you can get me into the Rodeo. I hear there’s beaucoup money to me made.” She didn’t like it much at BBVA anyway. Sarah was nice, but the food was terrible.

“Thank you so much! Oh, there is just one thing: we need you to commit to working all twenty-one days.”

“Abby, please, I think I’d be offended if you tried to force me off for a day during the biggest annual event in the city!”

***

Christyn wasn’t at the restaurant much, but she did manage to catch the rumors circulating about a new server who the others were dying to cut down to size. According to the talk, he had told Libby during his interview that he could sell ice to eskimos. He had also said, ‘I know you’re on a hiring spree, but you might as well stop now; I’m pretty much five servers rolled into one.’

She walked into one of the private dining rooms on a Sunday morning to find an unfamiliar face muttering over his menu test. “Fresh mozz...tomato...olive oil...balsamic...fuck, what else goes in a caprese salad…”

“Didn’t study?” she teased.

“Figured I’ve been in the restaurant game enough years. I’d know it off the top of my head if I wasn’t missing so much sleep.”

“Basil.”

He penciled in the answer and, finishing his test, stood to approach her, regarding her with his head tilted. He was maybe 5’6” to her 5’2”, lean and hard-muscled and sturdy, with brown hair, a pointed, intelligent face, and something familiar in his sharp blue eyes. “Thanks, Blondie.” (She had dyed her hair again; it was an intermediate blonde darker than the platinum she used to wear, but several shades up from her natural brown. She had also chopped most of it off; it fell to shoulder length now when it was down, but for work, she had it secured in a low, off-center ponytail with a ribbon. After she ended things with Jesse, she needed a change.) “So, if I may ask, what’s it like to work here?”

“Well, the food sucks, the owner’s a massive C-word, and the bottles of wine are liable to explode.”

“So, it’s a restaurant,” he shrugged.

She gaped, his blase response throwing her off.

“Look, honey, I’ve been in the restaurant business long enough to know how to work with food that sucks. Honestly, it sucks most places you go. Just salt, fat, and carbs; that’s all it is. But with the right buzz-words at the table, you can sell any kind of slop to idiots with deep pockets, and I happen to be the master of bullshit.”

“You must be the guy who said he could sell ice to eskimos.”

“Ah, so my reputation precedes me.”

While the rest of the staff had come to see the mysterious new guy as a rival, Christyn quite liked him. When he saw her struggling with a heavy case of wine, he took it off her hands and set it on the back bar for her. “Starting to lose steam after too many doubles in a row?”

“I wish. We rarely even get consecutive singles here,” said Christyn. “Libby is as stingy with scheduling as she is with everything else around here. I just have trouble with some of the heavier objects because of my spinal issues.” True, she could haul whole kegs on most days, but not without some difficulty, depending on whether it was a ‘good spine day’ or a ‘bad spine day’.

The rest of the shift passed in a similar fashion, with the new guy helping Christyn out with the toughest of her physical labor while she leaked inside information on Libby and secrets about the unsavory kitchen practices in the restaurant. They exchanged personal tidbits, too. For example, she learned that he used to be a personal trainer, for about a year, but couldn’t afford to renew his certifications, so he made an unhappy return to foodservice. For a while he worked at a popular Italian chain, but lost his place on the schedule after becoming grievously ill with pneumonia. That was how he came to apply at McCarthy’s. He was turning twenty-eight the following March, and secretly lamented that it was getting late for him to fulfill his lifelong dream of being a rock guitarist.

“What about you, Blondie, what are your dreams?” he asked as they finished the last of their sidework and walked out together.

“Get a better job after the Christmas season, for sure.”

“That’s not a dream, that’s a short term goal.”

“I’m just not feeling like much of a dreamer lately. I just got out of a bad relationship.” She lit up a cigarette.

“Well, what are you passionate about?”

She shrugged. “Helping people...the environment…”

“Well, what if you get your degree in environmental science?”

“I just can’t see myself outside the restaurant industry,” she sighed. “It’s a circus for sure, but it’s my circus.”

As they came upon the stairwell in the parking garage, the new guy lingered a few paces behind. “Aren’t you coming up?”

“I took the bus. I just wanted to make sure you made it across the parking lot safe.”

“How debonair of you. It really isn’t necessary, though. I may look soft, but I can hold my own.” She took the first few steps up before turning back around. “Say, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Makes sense, seeing as I didn’t drop it.” With a smirk, he disappeared around the corner of the building.

***

Christyn and New Guy’s brief touch on the environment during their conversation may not have inspired her to go back to school, but it did cause her to think of contacting Paul. Actually, a lot of things prompted her to fish for his business card in her laundry and dial his number.

There was the shock and loneliness, but also the potential, of being rid of Jesse. She was aching for the touch of a man, but also resenting Jesse for his utter lack of a willingness to fulfill her. He only ever took her from behind, and that was rarely. Usually, he preferred to tie her up, or hypnotize her into a tizzy, or make use of her mouth. How she had ever let him control her the way that he did was now beyond her. He was like a vampire; as soon as she let him in he just kept draining and draining.

She needed to cleanse her palate, and she wanted a good dicking down. And the way Paul had regarded her with lust in his eyes after a few glasses of wine…

Would he stay the night with her? Would he hold her in his arms and keep her warm as they lay breathing heavy and spent from climax?

It had been so long since she had experienced real intimacy. With Roger, it had been nothing but a drunk quickie; JD and her had been together for a while but he always rolled over in bed and became distant after they finished. Zeke...Zeke had been amazing, but it seemed every woman in Houston knew it and he was probably booked for the next three weeks solid between all his paramours.

Christyn lay on her stomach in bed, twirling the end of her hair with her headphones in while the phone rang three times. Then…

“Hello?”

“Paul, hey! It’s Christyn, I waited on you at McCarthy’s.”

“Chris, hey! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You said to me that once upon a time, you were head over heels for me. If that’s still the case, I still have pretty strong feelings about you, and wondered if you maybe wanted to get dinner sometime?”

They met the following week at Pasture, an organic health food restaurant that featured wine and cocktail service that Paul had picked out. She had been waiting for him on a bench outside the front door smoking cigarettes for ten minutes by the time he arrived. “Are you crazy? It’s freezing out here, you don’t even have a coat!”

Now that she thought about it, she felt rather silly: it was Jesse who insisted on her waiting outside for him before a date, and no humane man would make her do that in the 40 degree chill of November. Not that she was too cold, even in the sleeveless dress she had worn on Halloween (though, for dinner, she had left off the spherical hat). She supposed it would feel cold to Paul, though. He had gotten quite thin in the years they had been apart. “I wanted to smoke a cigarette before we went inside. But I’m just about done; let’s go in and eat!”

The hostess showed them to a booth in the front of the restaurant, and once Paul had the chance to remove his coat, revealing an expensive-looking tailored gray suit underneath, the waiter came to take their order. “I already know what I’m getting, but do you need a minute?” Paul asked Christyn.

She turned to the waiter. “What do you recommend for vegetarians?”

“What kind of vegetarian are you? Lacto, ovo, vegan…?”

“Dairy is fine, eggs are fine, and once in a while, I do shellfish.”

“Oh, the blackened shrimp here are amazing.”

“In that case…” She skimmed the menu for a moment. The shrimp tacos sounded good. She really wanted the pasta, but what if Paul made her eat it with her hands? It took her a second to remember she wasn’t out with Jesse and that normal men didn’t make demands like that. “I’ll have the blackened shrimp Cajun linguine.” Pasta in a spicy cream sauce with bell peppers, caramelized onions, and basil would be a delicious way to warm up on a chilly day. “And if you have a small dinner salad, I’ll start with one of those.”

“For your dressing, would you like ranch, balsamic, thousand island, or jalapeno honey mustard?” asked the waiter.

“Jalapeno honey for sure!”

“And for the gentleman?”

“Just my usual, Steve.”

“Gotcha. Hanger steak salad, mid-rare, no dressing, olive oil and lemons on the side?”

“Perfect, and I think I’ll start with a cup of vegetable and lentil soup and a glass of house cab. Christyn, did you know that drinking one glass of red wine has a similar effect on the body as an hour of exercise?”

“Really? That’s so interesting,” she said, even if she didn’t find diet-talk interesting at all, convinced the whole weight loss industry was a scheme to profit on the mass misery of the public. “Well, if you’re having wine, I’ll get a glass of house sauvie-B; that’ll go great with shrimp and cream sauce, won’t it?”

“Would the lady like some complimentary bread and herbed oil?” asked the waiter. “I already know Mr. Slater won’t eat it, but he’s never brought a guest before, so I thought I might offer.”

“Yes, please!”

Over bread, wine, and starters, Paul talked a lot about his work with the environmental lobby, until Christyn was halfway through her salad and he thought to check himself. “Chris, I apologize. I’ve been completely hogging the conversation, and being an absolute braggart at that.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “Work’s been a drag for me; I wouldn’t want to bring it up and dampen the conversation. Besides, it’s okay to brag. You’re working towards a great cause! But if you wanted to steer the conversation to something more entertaining, have you got any new jokes?” she asked. “I still tell that one all the time that you told me back in school, the one about an arrogant fraud artist going down a flight of stairs.”

A condescending con, descending. Classic!

Paul winced. “The corny ‘dad humor’ was never genuinely a part of me,” he admitted. “I just always felt like I had to alter my personality to make up for my looks. So I became the funny guy, the nice guy, the smart guy, in the hopes that it would make people overlook the fact that I was the fat guy.”

It was hard for Christyn to hear that all the things she had admired about him had, in fact, been a farce. Did she, then, really even know Paul Slater at all?

“Hey, folks, how is everything so far?” asked the waiter as he swung by their table.

“Great! This salad dressing is seriously delicious; would you mind bringing me some more on the side?”

“Not at all, ma’am. Sir, is the soup not to your liking?” he asked Paul, who had hardly touched his soup.

“It’s fine, I’m just saving my appetite,” said Paul. “If I’m being honest, I only ordered it because I didn’t want to make my companion eat her salad alone.”

“If you don’t care to eat any more of it, I can send it back and have it taken off the bill,” the waiter offered. Christyn wrinkled her nose, hating the idea of food waste when the streets were full of starving people.

“Do you know if it uses beef stock or vegetable stock?” she asked the waiter.

“Vegetable.”

“Then I’ll eat it, while I’m waiting on that dressing,” she said, and reached across the table. She’d probably end up taking the majority of her pasta to go, but that was alright. She could just eat it tomorrow.

“You shouldn’t stuff yourself on my account,” said Paul. “I wouldn’t want your figure to take a hit from finishing whatever I can’t.”

“Oh, come on, I’m hardly ‘stuffing myself’ with a small cup of soup.”

“And a salad...and most of a basket of bread...I wasn’t even going to say anything, but we still have entrees coming, and...well…”

“So just because you’ve lost weight, now you think I should, too?” asked Christyn. “That’s really funny--glad to see you’ve held onto some of your humor--because when you were wine drunk at my job, you said you were attracted to me. So which is it, am I attractive, or am I too fat for you, because I can’t be both, can I?”

“You’re very attractive! I just don’t understand your resistance to the idea of doing something to make yourself even more attractive.”

“Hmm...maybe I don’t need the extra salad dressing,” she said calmly, before standing up, dumping what remained of her salad directly in his lap, and striding out of the restaurant.

***

She had just gotten off working a shift for the agency and McCarthy’s was on her way home, so she swung by to pick up her check, and on her way out, she saw Eskimo (for she still didn’t know his name; it had become a game for them, each of them stubbornly holding out, so he was Eskimo and she was Blondie) waiting at the bus stop.

“When’s your bus arriving?” she shouted through the open window of her Fiat.

“Thirty minutes.”

“I can’t let you wait that long out here, it’s fixing to rain! Hop in.”

“Man, I really need to get one of these myself. It’s just a matter of funds,” he said, sliding into the passenger’s seat. “You’re a bold little thing, aren’t you, inviting a stranger into your car. One might say reckless. Go up to the light and turn right onto the service road.”

“I’d hardly call you a stranger,” said Christyn. “I might not have your name, but I have the strangest sense that I already know you.”

“True, there are only so many archetypes of people. You, yourself, happen to remind me of a woman I’ve seen only in pictures. You see, my cousin is an arrogant bastard and likes to get drunk at family functions and wave around pictures on his phone of whatever woman he’s got subjugated at the moment. He calls them his submissives, or slaves, and I guess he feels the need to show them off all tied up with his seed dripping down their faces to quell some deep burning inadequacy within himself. I don’t really know how S and M is supposed to work, but I’m certain he’s doing it wrong; violating these women’s privacy comes across to me as borderline abusive.”

Christyn swallowed.

“This last one, though, gave that brute just what was coming to him. Her name is Christy or something like that, and she left him dumped and humiliated in the middle of a house party. He hasn’t been the same since. He barely even eats, all his time is devoted to plotting revenge. Fucker’s got to have lost at least twenty pounds in a matter of weeks.” He regarded her knowingly from the passenger’s seat, as if waiting for a reaction.

“I’m surprised to learn Jesse drinks,” she said. “Christyn, by the way, my name is Christyn.”

“Alexander Markham, and what a relief it is to be known. Turn left on Bingle at the light.”

When they reached Alexander’s apartment, he invited her up for a spot of coffee. “Why?” she asked, scanning his face for traces of motivation. She didn’t think he was sexually attracted to her. Though they bantered at the restaurant, he had always kept a respectful distance. There were no eyes on her ass when he thought she wasn't looking, no hand a little too low on her back to signal ‘right behind’. But the self-proclaimed Master of Bullshit wanted something; she knew him well enough by now that he wouldn’t have tipped her off about Jesse for free. And now he was offering coffee…

“Well, to be honest, I had a proposition for you,” he said.

“I knew it.”

“See, ever since my last roommate got busted for possession and distribution, I’ve had trouble holding down the rent on my own. You mentioned at work that your lease is expiring. What I’m offering you is a spare room and a spare bed somewhere Jesse doesn’t know where you are, and physical protection if he ever catches wind. What I need from you is $300 a month.”

“Easy,” said Christyn, and extended a hand to shake. Alex took it firmly.

“Now, come up and let me make you that coffee!”

The inside of Alex’s apartment was strewn with workout equipment; Christyn could see why he was in a financial rut. He must be spending so much on all of this vanity. “My old roommate,” he said, “left this bag of instant behind, but I haven’t used any of it yet. I wanted to have somebody to share it with.” He led the way into the kitchen and retrieved the bag of instant coffee from a cabinet. Only, when he opened it, his face contorted with puzzlement. “Huh? I’ve never seen coffee like this before.”

Christyn got behind him and stood on her tiptoes to peer into the bag over his shoulder. Inside were white, rectangular blocks. “Um, what was your roommate dealing?” she asked. “And did he dip into his own supply? Because that’s not coffee, that’s soap. Those are bars of soap.”

“Goddammit!” he swore. He chucked the bag against the wall so hard Christyn was afraid he was going to dent the plaster. “I hate people who do meth!”

It took him a minute to steady his breathing. Christyn wondered if she was making the right decision to move in with him; clearly, tendencies toward anger ran in the Markham family. But in a seemingly conscious decision, Alexander had projected his anger in the opposite direction from Christyn, which was a good sign. And after the moment passed, he said, “Well, if you want, I can make you a chocolate vitamin shake.”

It was nice of him to offer, though the thought of diet food didn’t exactly appeal to her. Her expression must have given her away, because he said, “No? Okay...what about a chocolate vitamin shake with a little bit of vodka mixed in?”

Now, that was more like it!

“I guess I can be done driving for today. I’ll go get my stuff tomorrow.”


	15. FOURTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the following chapter contains mentions of gun violence.

**FOURTEEN**

Damian got a job within walking distance of his apartment working graveyards as a cashier at the 24-hour fast-food drive-thru at the end of his street. He worked four nights a week for 10 hours straight and had the rest of his days off. The uniform called for black slacks, a white polo, and non-slip shoes, which he thankfully had. He didn’t even know the name of the place; the sign was broken out front.

The pay wasn’t great, but he got a free shift meal each shift, and one of the other cashiers, Brenda, gave him half of hers whenever they worked together, insisting she couldn’t finish because if she did, she would gain too much weight.

On top of the work food, he was stress eating junk at home. Whole sleeves of cookies or family sized bags of chips disappeared in single sittings; his sister had told him he would owe her big time for bonding him out, and he was dodging her calls, stuffing himself silly to pull his mind away from the dread of what she would want from him.

Back at The Capital, Christyn had made sure he was always able to eat well, but the work got so physically intense that he never gained much more weight than what he’d lost in jail, but now, he had a job that was so easy it was boring, barely requiring him to leave the register. He very quickly put every pound he’d lost back on, and he hadn’t intended to put on twenty more pounds on top of it in a little under five weeks, but he found himself enjoying it. He liked that there was more of him. Alone in his apartment, he would sometimes run a hand down the bit of squishiness that had settled around his stomach and give it a little squeeze, taking comfort that it was there. He liked feeling heavier, sturdier, and harder to push around. And, having grown up broke and usually hungry, the feeling of being full, even too full, gave him an intense rush of pleasure that almost always triggered the beginnings of an erection.

The fantasies about Christyn were getting more frequent. He was dreaming of her now at least twice a week, dream-Christyn feeding and fattening him up by another fifty pounds, rubbing his stuffed belly and lovingly caressing his body everywhere she’d made him soft.

She was single now, so he knew he had to shoot his shot soon before another guy beat him to the punch...but how was he supposed to explain all these thoughts to her?

One Monday off, he woke up at around 7 PM and noticed Auralee’s business card lying face-up on the nightstand. She had said some stuff when she came into the restaurant...she called herself a ‘feeder.’ The last time they spoke, she had come across as a little unsettling, but she was the only one he could think of who might know anything about what he was going through.

So, he called her up. “Auralee speaking,” she answered.

“Hey, Auralee, it’s, uh, it’s Damian, we met at the Capital.”

“Well, hello there! I was hoping I would hear from you. Calling to take me up on that job offer? If so, I have a part time position available.”

“I wish I could do that, but I don’t really have a car right now. I was actually calling because I wanted to talk to you about something. Remember when you mentioned you were a feeder?”

“Oh, Damian, I barely remember last Tuesday, but that does sound like something I would mention. Tell me, how detailed did I get?”

“Pretty, uh, pretty detailed.”

“And do I detect a hint of curiosity in your voice, hmm?” she asked.

“I...maybe?”

“Tell you what, Damian, I’d like to continue this conversation in person, perhaps over drinks, if you’ll consent.”

“Sure.”

“Great! What’s your address?”

He gave it to her, and immediately after getting off the phone, swept the floor of his small apartment and straightened up a few things, expecting her to come over. Instead, she sent her valet to pick him up.

Auralee lived on the top floor of a towering apartment complex between downtown and Memorial City. Damian took the elevator up and knocked, a little self-conscious about how poorly he fit in with the picture of luxury he saw all around him, but Auralee welcomed him in with a smile.

“You look well,” she said. He flushed.

“I know I’ve picked up some pounds.”

“‘Picked up’? From where, the side of the road?” she laughed. “You young folks and your funny sayings. Come, sit down!”

Her apartment was full of fancy rugs and shelves lined with little knick-knacks, with velvet curtains and two couches in the living room that overflowed with cushions that were all very soft; he was unprepared for how quickly he’d sink into them when he sat down. “Sorry,” said Auralee, “I like soft things. Now, how about a glass of wine?”

“Sure, I guess, since I’m not driving.”

She went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. The wine was dark yellow in color and deliciously sweet. “What is this?”

“Moscato. It’s a good wine for beginners. But let me just see here…” She walked towards him on the couch, and for a moment, he was afraid of what she might do. Thankfully, she didn’t try and molest him or anything, just placed her hand on his upper arm and gave it a light squeeze. “My, my, you are starting to fill out!” Her voice dripped with enthusiasm. Even if he wasn’t into Auralee, it excited him to hear that as a compliment. “How does it feel?”

He knew he must have been beet red as he admitted, “Good! Really, really good, almost too good, and I want more and I don’t understand it.”

She fixed him with a knowing, penetrating gaze. “I suspected this when we met. You might be a feedee.”

“A...what?”

“Someone who likes to overeat or gain weight. There are many different kinds of pleasure. So, if you’ll indulge my curiosity, how much more do you think you want to gain?”

“I don’t know. And the thing is, I wouldn’t want to do it alone.”

“Oh, so you want a feeder,” said Auralee, nodding slowly and still smiling. “It isn’t enough for you to simply get fat; what you want is to get fattened. Why, Damian...are you propositioning me?”

At that, he flushed deeper than ever. “N-no offense, Auralee...you’re an attractive lady, I’ve just always been into thicker women.”

“Relax. I was just messing with you, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” She had a musical laugh, despite a somewhat off-putting demeanor upon first impression. “Would you like a little piece of cake?”

He was going to tell her no thanks, unsure of how he’d feel about eating in front of her, but at the mention of food, a pang of hunger that almost hurt lurched his stomach and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day. “What kind of cake?”

“Strawberry.”

His eyes must have lit up or something, because she scuttled to the kitchen as fast as she could and came back with a piece of cake on a plate that was not what he would call ‘little’. Nevertheless, it was delicious, fluffy and coated in a sweet, creamy frosting that delighted his tongue and felt like heaven all the way down his throat, and he had over half of it put away in no time at all, pausing once in a while to drink more wine or look up at Auralee and see what she was up to over on the other couch.

“You eat like a little starved animal, has anyone ever told you that?” she said.

“It’s good cake.”

“I could give you the name of the bakery, if you like.”

“It’s probably out of my budget.”

“Have you always been on a tight budget?”

He told her a little about his past, how he’d grown up broke after the last of his mother’s modeling fortune had gone straight up her nose.

“That explains your easy progress so far. Most of the time with you younger guys, it’s a challenge to overcome your metabolism, but I imagine yours has already been damaged by having to go hungry.”

As he scraped the last of the cake crumbs and icing off the plate with his fork, he said, “I haven’t told this to anyone I know nowadays...but back when I was growing up, my sister didn’t like me to have my fill, and she never kept sweets in the apartment. I guess she thought if I kept a lean figure, I could take Mom’s place in the modeling industry when I got old enough.”

“And why couldn’t she take Mom’s place?”

“She loved the crack pipe too much to function. Anyway, in first grade, this kid in my class had her mom bake cupcakes for her birthday, and the first time I had one, it blew my fuckin’ mind. It was so tasty, even with the paper still on there, because I’d never even seen one before so I didn’t know I was supposed to take it off. For the rest of elementary school, I was the freak that ate the cupcake paper; that was just my reputation.”

Auralee burst out laughing, then shook her head and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh! It’s just that sometimes I laugh when I’m sad.”

“It’s okay to laugh, it’s funny to me now.”

He glanced around the room, taking inventory. There was a grandfather clock in the corner that read 3:15 and a digital clock on a shelf that read 11:30. By the clock on his phone, it was 8:07. “Why the clocks don’t work?” he asked. If she was rich, why hadn’t she bothered to get them fixed?

“The same reason I keep the curtains drawn,” said Auralee. “Without his sense of time, a man might lose track of how long he’s been here, and how much he’s eaten, if I keep plates coming. Try your hand at getting out of that seat.” He managed to get to his feet, but it was a struggle; as soft as the couch was, it was easy to feel swallowed up by the cushions.

“That was hard. Woulda been really hard if I was drunker.”

“Or heavier,” said Auralee.

“You got quite a setup here. I bet you can put some serious weight on a motherfucker.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey, where you from?”

“You hear the accent, don’t you? I was born here, but my parents are from New York,” she said. “You know, there used to be a New York fat men’s club?”

“Really?”

“Back in the day President Taft was invited to join, but he never did, fearing the implications on his political career.”

“Ain’t that the bathtub guy?”

“And a stark opponent to prohibition, as well. Without that man, I might not have a job.”

After some time, she asked him, “Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Yeah, actually. How can you tell if someone’s a feeder or feedee?”

“Well, it’s simple, really. You have to ask!” said Auralee. “Now, if that’s all,” she went on, taking the empty plate out of his hands, “Wadsworth can take you home. I hate to cut this visit short, but I wanted to get properly shitfaced tonight, and at this early stage in our friendship--if I may call you my friend--that’s nothing you need to see.”

***

Damian was, of course, horrified by the prospect of asking Christyn to be his feeder. What if she was too weirded out? What if she wasn’t interested in him? Then again, thinking of all the interactions they’d had in the past...when he went to jail the first time, she had fought for his job and promoted him when he came back. When her boyfriend punched him in the face, she had taken his side and left the fucker in front of dozens of their friends. Christyn had always unconditionally accepted him, and the worst thing he could imagine happening was that she rejected him, but they remained friends.

His next day off, he paced his living room for a few minutes before pulling out his phone. He had a missed call from Stella, but he was avoiding her for now. After all, the last time he’d spent any time with her, he’d been arrested. He called up Christyn, and when she answered, he couldn’t think of what to say, so he settled on, “Sup?”

“Not much. I’m driving home from work. I was bartending at this law firm downtown for the agency,” she said. “What’s up with you?”

“I just, uh…” Come on, out with it, he thought to himself. “I was just thinking about you, and wondering if you were still single.”

“I am...although, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this guy I met at work back in March.”

“You have?” he said, instantly disheartened as he wondered who it was who had won her affection.

“Yeah, he’s always been really obvious about being into me, and now that I’ve given Jesse the boot, I’ve been thinking...he’s really cute, and really sweet, and I’d like to give him a chance.”

“Oh.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I guess go get him, if you like him.”

“Great! Hey, when’s your next day off?”

“I’m off tonight--”

“Sweet, I’m off tomorrow! Want to have a drink? I can pick up some beer and come over.”

“That would be nice,” he said. A beer would definitely help ease the heartbreak right now.

***

Damian must have been waiting up, because when Christyn arrived, he opened the door before she could knock. He looked...different. Good different, she thought to herself. She had expected to find him still wasting away, but instead, he had actually put on some weight. A noticeable amount, in fact. His cheeks, which she had seen heartbreakingly hollow in the past, were rounded back out like when she first met him, if not a little fuller. He was wearing her sweater, open, over a shirt that pulled snug around his softened middle. His thighs were thicker, too, crowding together ever so slightly. She supposed she shouldn’t be shocked; he’d been on the outside for several weeks now, and he had mentioned he had gotten a job at a fast food place. It brought a smile to her face and comfort to her heart seeing him like this, knowing he wouldn’t likely starve to death if she left him alone for too long. Or freeze. Every winter it seemed like it was getting colder.

“I missed you!” he said, and pulled her in for a hug.

“I missed you too, bud.” She ruffled his hair, then wrapped her arms around him. It was so nice not to feel his bones through his skin. His soft little belly pressed against hers and she let out a tiny squeak of delight.

His apartment was sparsely furnished, but very clean. There was a couch, a table, and an air mattress in her plain view, plus a microwave on the kitchen counter, a modest television set, and a trash can in the corner. He led her to the table in the kitchen, where they cracked open a couple of the beers she’d brought over. “So, did you talk to that guy you were telling me about?” he asked.

After downing half of her beer in one pull, she laughed. “That guy...the one I met at work? Back in March?” she said. “I was hoping you’d take the hint. I was talking about you.”

“You...you like me?”

“Yeah, I really do.”

“Even now?” he asked. “I know I’ve put on a bit of a gut...actually, it’s a little over 20 pounds since we met.”

20 pounds...somehow, it looked more dramatic than that, but then, she had seen him fresh out of jail twice now, a good 20 pounds under the weight she was used to seeing him at, and now that he was that same amount over, the contrast was stark. “You checked?” she asked. “You actually own a scale?”

“You don’t?”

“Dude, you’ve been in my house. No, I don’t own a scale. Honestly, having a whole appliance just to spit a number at you that represents your relationship with gravity comes across as a waste of money to me.” She finished her beer and cracked open another before he was done with his first. “But yes, I like the extra weight on you. If anything, I’m not afraid to break you now. Anyway, you met my last boyfriend, he even punched you in the face. You can’t tell me you actually think I discriminate in the bedroom based on weight?”

He reddened a couple shades. “To be honest, a few extra pounds isn’t the part I’m worried about.”

“Well then, what is?”

“Would...would it freak you out if I said I liked it too?” he asked.

“What, gaining weight?”

He nodded, looking embarrassed and guilty. “So what, who doesn’t like food?”

“It’s more than just that, I…”

“Oh, you like it sexually,” she said, and he turned bright red, alerting her that she was right. “Ha! I should have guessed that was why you always wanted me to have a fat fetish.”

“I asked if it would freak you out, though.”

She slammed her second beer down in one and threw the empty bottle past his shoulder and into the trash with perfect aim. “Buddy, I don’t know if you’ve internalized this, but I. Have. Literally. Seen. It. ALL,” she said. “I’ve seen a wine bottle explode in someone’s hands five feet away from me.”

“When was this?”

“August.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to trouble you,” she said. “You already know I’ve been drowned, beat, and homeless. I’ve worked through Hurricane Harvey. And that’s just my personal experiences. Around us, the world has been going insane for quite some time. Global climate change might bring about Armageddon before the end of our lifetimes. Not too long ago we impeached a president. When I was in first grade, I had this really mean teacher who despised cartoons, so she’d put the news on for us to watch, and that’s how me and every other kid in my class got to watch the Twin Towers fall. The fact that you get off on getting fat does not phase or deter me in the slightest. And I really hope you aren’t trying to scare me off, because if so, you’re going to have to work a lot harder.”

He blinked. Sipped on his beer. “Wow. That took a dark turn real fast.”

“So are we gonna smash, or what?”

***

It was an overwhelming relief that Christyn had been so accepting of Damian’s secret desires, although a little concerning that she had cited 9/11 as part of her logic behind it. It was also pretty mind-boggling to be reminded that she was already reading and doing basic math at the moment he was being born. Their age difference wasn’t so drastic, but she seemed to have much more life experience than he had.

Much more sexual experience, too.

Now that he had her alone in his apartment, and ready to ‘smash,’ at that, he didn’t know exactly what to do with her. For months, he had pined for her. Now, he was terrified of disappointing her.

Maybe a little more liquid courage would help ease his performance anxiety. He led the way to the couch, moving what remained of the six-pack to the table in front of it, and turned on the TV. “Is there anything you want to watch?”

“Anything is fine.”

He finished the rest of his beer and experimentally placed an arm around her. She leaned into his touch while they both had another beer and watched about fifteen minutes of an action movie neither one of them could follow. She left for a minute to smoke a cigarette on the back patio, and when she came back, she put her arms around him this time, giving him a light squeeze around the waist before she relaxed. By then he was starting to feel a little buzzed, and he found the confidence to press a gentle kiss to her lips.

She took the lead from there. She pressed her body into his and deepened their kiss, parting his lips with her tongue. She pushed him onto his back on the couch. Her hands slipped under his shirt and ran up and down his waist, her manicured nails digging in as she gave his hips a squeeze. Her touch was a wonderful sensation; he’d never felt so desired as when she grabbed handfuls of his sides like that. She tugged the sweater off of him and then the shirt, and proceeded to trail kisses down the side of his neck, then his chest, and finally down to the little gut he’d put on. She began to alternate her kisses with little licks and nips and finally bit down on the small roll of softness right below his navel. The feeling was electric, even if he gave a bit of a jolt at the twinge of pain.

“Too much?” she asked, pulling away.

“No, it feels good.”

She smiled and went back to lavishing his belly with attention, sucking on the same spot until he was sure she’d leave a hickey. The thought turned him on immensely; he imagined the thrill he would get over the next few days getting dressed in the mirror and seeing the mark as a reminder of what they had done, and his erection grew harder and harder against her chest. He undid her ribbon and tossed it over the side of the couch so he could run his fingers through her hair.

“God, who taught you how to do that?” He expected her to say Jesse or maybe Roger, but her answer took him by surprise:

“Auralee.”

His excitement had not gone unnoticed to her. Her eyes flitted to the bulge in his pants and she began to rub his crotch through the fabric. “Please, Christyn, please,” he begged, afraid he might bust in his pants soon if she kept teasing him.

She worked his pants down to his knees, then his boxers, and for a moment, just stared.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s...really big,” she said, looking a little worried. “I don’t know if I can fit it all in my mouth.”

Nevertheless, she tried. She teased him just a little bit more, spreading his legs apart to bite and suck at the soft parts of his inner thighs. He’d have marks there too in the morning, and he couldn’t wait to see the evidence of all she had done to him. Finally, she took him into her mouth, working his shaft with her hand while she sucked on him. He tried to hold back, but she made him feel so good, slobbering all over his cock like she did. Sometimes she would use her free hand to grope his sides or his belly or his thighs, or else reach between his legs and play with his balls. Then, at one point, she held the tip of him in her throat, and he tried to push her off, “Please, Chrissy, I’m just too close--”

But he couldn't stop himself from busting.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he watched her walk off and spit into the kitchen sink.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

But he didn’t think it was okay to leave her unsatisfied.

So when she returned to the couch, he started to undo her belt, slowly at first, asking permission with his eyes. She helped him take off her pants, and he pulled her panties to the side and started licking and fingering her. He could tell she was enjoying it by the way she moaned and sighed and played with his hair, though she did give him a few pointers along the way (“A little slower,” and “Less fingers, more tongue.”) Downstairs he wasn’t ready to go again just yet, but it was turning him on all over again learning how to please her.

He took out his fingers and worked her harder with his mouth, wrapping his arms around her thighs and caressing them. She had such pretty, round thighs; powerful, too, and when she clenched them around his head he enjoyed it so much that he let her asphyxiate him like that for probably over a minute before giving her a little tap to signal that he needed air.

“Did you get it?” he asked her. She nodded, looking flushed and dazed.

Later on, when they were cuddling on the couch, he remarked, “You’re a really hands-on kind of person, aren’t you?”

“I can’t help it,” she said. “I can barely keep my hands off you. You know, I don’t usually pay attention to the nuances of the human body, mine or anybody else’s. I see it less as a sexual object and more as a tool for getting work done.”

“How blue-collar of you.”

“But it feels really nice cuddling up with you now that you’ve filled out a little.”

“Will you still say that if I hit 180?”

“Well, I can’t predict the future, but I’m sure I will.”

“What about 230?”

“Is that what you’re aiming for?”

“I’ve...I’ve thought about it.” Before he knew what he was saying, he blurted out, “Would you do it to me?”

“Would I...what?”

He shifted a bit in her arms so he was facing the back rest of the couch. God, this was so embarrassing to admit...but also hot, and anyway, it was about time he told her. Just not while looking her in the eyes. “While I was in jail I kind of had this dream that you were, uh...sitting in my lap, you had me like, pinned down and you were wearing this black lace thing and feeding me ice cream out of one of those gallon thingies with a spoon. And you kept on saying all this stuff like I’m getting so nice and fat for you and I look so much better that way but I’m still not fat enough yet, and you can’t get enough of me and you’ll be mortally offended if I don’t finish the whole thing.” He buried his face in the cushions now, awaiting her reaction.

She just pressed her forehead to the space between his shoulderblades and laughed. “Mortally offended? Why does my food-porn dominatrix voice sound like it went to Rice Fucking University?”

He was really glad that was the only part of this she seemed to find weird.

“Y’know what, we can finish this conversation when you’re a little more sober.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“But you’re not sober, and you say and do the craziest things sometimes when you’ve been drinking. Hell, apparently once you told Estrella you had plans to run off to France and join the army there, and remember how she freaked out so bad she got you arrested on purpose just to keep you in the county?”

That warm feeling suddenly turned into a jagged shard of ice shoved right up his ass. “She what?”

“Shit...I thought you already figured it out?”

He had no response.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she said, but there was nothing either of them could do about it now. He thought about asking if Christyn had anything else onhand to drink, but in the end decided, screw that. He wanted to remember this little tidbit of information. That, and he didn’t want to move from his current position, with Christyn holding him like she was afraid he’d fall apart if she let go.

When Damian awoke, Christyn was already up. She had pulled him halfway onto his back in his sleep so he lay partially on top of her, and with one hand, she was sleepily grabbing and squeezing the small but noticeable bit of pudge around his lower belly. When he had asked her last night if she would be down to fatten him up, she hadn’t given him a clear yes or no, but to wake up with her playing with the little bit of fat he had put on certainly gave him hope.

Suddenly, she pushed his belly up and let it drop, and he felt his newly added pudge jiggle only for a second before it settled back into place, but that second was all it took for him to spring a stiff erection. And when she kissed his neck and asked him, “What do you want for breakfast?” he was done for.

He flipped over on the couch and took off her pants, but only managed to get her shirt halfway off before he couldn’t resist her any longer. It was a miracle he had the willpower to let her fish a condom out of her bag by the foot of the couch.

Somehow, she was even sexier with her arms still in her shirt than she would have been plain naked--something about the urgency of the situation did it for him. She was so wet, and though she held him off with a hand on his shoulder for a minute complaining that it was ‘almost too big,’ eventually he had her breathing hard and pulling him as deep as he could go, legs wrapped around his waist hard like she was an octopus hell-bent on squeezing him to death.

When he went to the bathroom he took his phone with him, and saw he had three missed calls from Stella. He ignored them.

And as for breakfast…

“How about waffles?”

Christyn had quit her job at McCarthy’s a while back without a notice, not wanting to run into Jesse in case he came in looking for her, but she hadn’t had time to look for a new one besides the temping agency, they were keeping her so busy lately. She had been booked solid through the Christmas season, and this cold late January day was her only day off before she had to work a bunch of back-to-back assignments at a variety of different venues downtown and then finally go to the Rodeo, and she decided she wanted them to ‘go somewhere nice.’ Damian felt guilty for not having the funds to take her out, until she said, “Don’t worry, we won’t be paying.” Now, his interest was piqued.

He got dressed (button-up and khakis in case whatever place Christyn had in mind was nice-nice; hoodie thrown on at the last minute because it was cold) and let Christyn lead the way.

The heat didn’t work in Christyn’s car, but luckily, the seat warmers did. The drive was scenic and woodsy, but Damian didn’t pay much attention to the scenery, nor did he ask where they were going. “So, you and Auralee, huh?”

“Yeah, she wanted to make love one more time in her ‘real’ body before she went through with the surgery. Her piece of shit boyfriend wasn't around, but I was conveniently there, and conveniently bisexual, so she poured me a couple shots, took me in the back, and we fucked on top of the meat freezer.”

“At work?”

“Yep, at the bowling alley.”

Now that was a mental image that did things to him. He liked thick women, that much he could never deny, but he had never given much thought to the idea of being with a very fat woman until he saw the old photograph of Auralee before her operation. She had looked striking in the picture, like an almighty redheaded goddess, and picturing her minus her clothes with Christyn, all curvy but sturdy, naked too, in the dark, in the workplace, was making the blood flow south. He’d definitely be saving that in the spank bank for later.

They pulled up at the gated entry of a country club. “Membership?” the boy in the guardhouse asked her.

“Devereaux, you should find me on the list.”

“Ah, yes! I remember your face now, Mrs. Devereaux. And your guest…?”

“This is my cousin; if you would be so kind as to set him up with a visitor’s pass?”

“Of course, Mrs. Devereaux. Right away. Tell me, how is your husband these days?”

“He’s overseas, of course, but we talk on the phone daily. He says he can’t wait to see you again.”

“Tell him we miss him equally! And why is it, Mrs. Devereaux, that you never wear your ring?”

“You ask me that every time, Tommy, and every time I have the same answer!”

“That you came here to go swimming.”

The guard handed Christyn a card with a bar code, and she handed it to Damian, and she parked and they got out of the car, and as she led him into the main building, his brain exploded with questions that soon spilled out his mouth.

“Devereaux? As in Jacques Devereaux? Auralee’s brother? You guys were married? Are you still married? Is he gonna come try and pick a fight if he finds out you dropped his name to take me to the country club?”

“Relax, would you? JD and I were never married,” said Christyn, chuckling a bit as she led the way in. The country club was lavish inside, all high ceilings and chandeliers. As he followed her deeper inside, he glimpsed full size indoor tennis and basketball courts through the wide floor to ceiling windows. This was a place for rich-rich people, that much was evident. There was a golf course and an outdoor pool, but both were dead at the moment due to the weather. “He used to pass me off as his wife to his family’s friends, so that they would stop pestering him to settle down with a woman. He had no interest in marriage and talked endlessly with me about leaving the city, but I was fine with acting as his cover especially once he put me on his membership here. Will you wait for me while I go to the restroom?”

She wasn’t gone for long, but he still found himself counting the minutes until she returned. Everyone here was better-dressed than he was, and it made him entirely too self-conscious. Even Christyn was dressed well enough to blend in. She was only wearing the black slacks and button-up she had come to his apartment in the previous night, with the addition of a scarf she’d dug out of the mess of stuff in her backseat at a stoplight, but she looked nice. If he didn’t already know she shopped at Goodwill, he wouldn’t have guessed.

When she came back out, she had a devious grin on her face. “Do you remember our conversation last night?” she asked. “The thing you asked me to do to you? Is that still what you want?”

“Oh, God, yes,” he choked out, anticipation building in his core as he wondered just what she had in store for him.

“In that case, consider me on board. Come follow me, I just thought of a game I want to play.”

She led him to another area of the club, which had an indoor pool with an attached restaurant and bar area. After claiming a four-top table, she walked up to the bartender and talked to him for a minute before returning. She took her seat, across from him, and soon someone came to clear the extra settings.

After a few minutes, the waiter came with a tray of food, positioned slightly behind Damian’s seat so he had trouble seeing exactly what was on it without turning uncomfortably in his stiff, armed wooden chair. “That’s for him, and that’s for me,” Christyn began to instruct the waiter, who set a croissant sandwich with scrambled eggs, cheese, and some kind of sauce in front of her and a salad with two thingies of dressing on the side in front of Damian. For a moment he wondered if this was some sort of joke, or if Christyn was missing the point. He thought she had just agreed to fatten him up. Maybe she just wasn’t very instinctually good at it?

“Oh, don’t turn your nose up. There's nothing sexy about vitamin deficiency. If we’re going to do this, I intend on my part to do what I can to keep you in optimum health,” said Christyn. Then, to the waiter, she said, “And that’s for him, and that’s also for him.”

On Damian’s side of the table, the waiter set down a plate of eggs, bacon, sausage, and biscuits, and a separate plate of waffles with butter and maple syrup already starting to melt.

“You said you wanted waffles, right?”

“That’s more like it,” he said, almost breathless. “Do I have to finish all of this?” He hoped the answer was yes, but that she’d bend and show a little mercy if he couldn’t.

“No,” said Christyn. She thanked the waiter and sent him away with a thick wad of cash shoved in his apron pocket. “But, for every plate you finish, I’ll reward you by taking off part of my clothes.”

He liked this game already. “Right here?”

“No, not right here, we live in a society for Christ’s sake! Just...y’know, have at it, and once you’re done, we’ll go over by the pool behind the fake trees and I’ll give you the show.”

He decided to start with the salad, drenching it in the dressing before he dug in, since it looked like the easiest plate to conquer, and he really wanted to see Christyn strip off either her pants or shirt. He wasn’t used to eating salad, thinking of it as a mostly overpriced meal for bougie-ass people, and given the choice, he usually opted for something more substantial with a lower price tag. But this salad was really good; the dressing was light and homemade over leaves and vegetables that were all fresh and crisp, balanced with the crunch of pecans and the sweetness of blueberries and thankfully no onions. He took down the first course easily, pushing the plate to the side of the table with a triumphant grin while Christyn made it through the first quarter of her sandwich, which she had cut into perfect fourths for easier handling.

It was a late breakfast, and his hunger hadn’t even been slightly dented after the salad, as delicious as it was, but he knew he was onto the difficult part of his meal now. Thinking strategically, he put the bacon, eggs, and sausage on top of the waffle and folded it in half like a sandwich, which he proceeded to tear into voraciously. Once he got through that, all he’d have left was was the biscuit, and after that, a lovely show of Christyn stripteasing down to her essentials by the pool.

As he ate, he decided to make small talk, both as a way to pass the time and to get further into Christyn’s brain. “How did you and JD break up?” he asked. “Y’all still friends? I mean, he lets you use his club membership, so it sounds like y’all still friends. Has he met Jesse? What does he think of him? Is he gonna mess him up when he comes back? When is he coming back? Do you think he would like me? He looked like a really fit guy in the one picture I saw, but I also met Jesse, so I guess you’ve been with guys from really fit to really heavy, huh. So which is your type? If you have one.” He hadn’t meant to bombard her with so many questions all at once; he simply wished to know all there was to know about the woman he was falling for, who was now finally within his reach.

“Eh, JD wasn’t exactly skinny by the time we were an item. He’d gotten on these mood stabilizers that made him gain a bunch of weight--”

“And how did you feel about that?”

“Honestly, I was just glad he was, well, stable. Before he got on the meds, he was an unpredictable wild card, plus a compulsive liar, and for the longest time I didn’t believe he’d ever been in the French Foreign Legion, or, indeed, whether it even existed.”

Christyn had met JD before she met Auralee. At the time, she had been homeless, living in her car, having just flunked an interview at a bank in inner-city Houston. She had parked in a vacant lot and intended to get some sleep, when a man in a wheelchair and an unfamiliar military uniform caught her eye. For hours, she watched him and his DISABLED VET ANYTHING HELPS sign, but she had nothing to spare except a can of tuna and a pack of instant ramen, and even then she was considering halving that with him, but then, once the traffic stopped, he stood up.

“He walked right up to my window and asked what such a pretty girl was doing sleeping in a parking lot. So I told him what happened with my living arrangements, and we got to talking. He said his sister's word held weight at the family business, and that he’d take me there, and before the day was out I was hired as a barback at the bowling alley.

“He worked there part time, but he didn’t need to. His family had plenty of money. He didn’t need to pretend to be a paraplegic to panhandle for change, but I think that just gave him a sick thrill.

“He made it really obvious that he liked me, and I was always fond of him as a friend, and grateful to him for getting me a job, but I was also a little afraid of getting too close to someone so...well, balls-to-the-wall insane, really. He was the one, by the way, who taught me how to make a bird explode. It took him saving my life before I even gave him a chance--you see, Auralee and I had had a little disagreement, and she--”

“Handcuffed you to the beer kegs,” he finished for her. She looked up at him with surprise and he explained, “She already told me that part of the story.”

Without really realizing it, he’d mindlessly eaten through the bacon-waffle monstrosity of a sandwich he’d put together while he’d been listening to her talk. He’d probably passed the point of being full a few bites ago, but even if he’d registered it at the time, he wouldn’t have wanted to stop. That was definitely the best waffle he’d ever had in his short life, perfectly fluffy and sweet with just enough of a crunch to stand up to the syrup. He bet the chefs here made huge bank. “Two down,” he said with a smirk, dropping his empty plate on top of the first. Actually, it was closer to three down; all he had left was the biscuit, and he put that away before too long. It pushed him almost right over the fine line between pleasant fullness and discomfort, but the slow dull ache in his stomach brought with it a certain satisfaction, too. It was all well worth it for the beaming smile on Christyn’s face.

“Impressive,” she said with a slow nod, and he could tell she wasn’t just saying it to please him. She looked so proud of him for completing her challenge, and it gave him a warm sensation of comfort. “Well, let’s go then, so I can give you your prize!”

Getting up from the table was difficult, but with a little shuddering exhale he managed to follow her to the other side of the pool area, where he collapsed onto a pool chair, dazed and drowsy and food-drunk. “Hey, don’t pass out on me now, or you’ll miss everything!” said Christyn, slipping her shoes off.

“Shoes don’t count,” he insisted.

“Okay, but I still gotta take ‘em off to take off my pants. Socks, however, completely count, and you can’t negotiate with me on that one.” She took those off and began to unzip her pants, as if stripping in the country club was simply a thing people did, even in the back corner of the pool area where it was deserted. He couldn’t believe she was actually doing it. But she did, and after she stepped out of the pants, she tossed them playfully at him before pulling off her shirt.

Wait, was she--was she wearing another shirt under her shirt? He blinked for a minute as she tossed her shirt at him too, wondering why she was still clothed underneath, before realizing she had on a sleek black one-piece swimsuit under her clothes. “When did you put that on?”

“In the bathroom. It was in the backseat of my car; I threw it in my bag when we parked. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

“Why don’t I turn my whole self into a violin, since you wanna play me?”

“I wish I owned a skimpier one, but I need something that’s not gonna fall off me while I try to swim.”

“Don’t get me wrong, it is a great view.”

“Oh, just you wait.” She jumped in the pool with an epic splash and swam around a little before coming to a rest with her hands on the ledge. “You wanna come in? There’s a shop in the main entrance of the club, I can spot you a couple bucks for a suit.”

“Oh, that’s funny. She got jokes.” Even if he could comfortably get up right now, it was freezing outside. He was surprised she wasn’t worried about walking out there with wet hair and catching pneumonia.

She swam a few laps while he watched and rested off his huge meal. She was a strong swimmer, besting even some of the athletic-looking men in the pool with her speed, but he supposed he would make a point of becoming a good swimmer too if he’d almost drowned to death at an early stage of his life.

They stayed for a few more minutes after Christyn got out of the pool, but by then the crowd was starting to turn up for a mid-day rush, so they decided to move while they could still navigate the place without bumping into people. On the car ride back, he remembered that Christyn had never finished her story, and asked, “So whatever happened to you and JD?”

Her smile fell. “We were in Chicago...JD was taking a couple of the new pinsetter mechanics to get certified up at the Brunswick School, and he’d brought me along for company. Earlier that month, he’d come off his mood stabilizers, at his parents’ insistence, but he wasn’t acting funny or anything. He bought me some nice lingerie and a very expensive bottle of champagne, and left in the middle of the day to take the guys to their exams, saying he’d only be gone for a couple hours tops…

“So I waited for him in our beautiful, white-walled, eighteenth-story hotel room.

“And I waited.

“And I waited.

“Finally, I figured he must have just ditched me to get drunk with the guys, so I drank all the champagne by myself, turned on the TV, and he was all over the news. He’d snapped and started firing a semi-automatic into a crowd at the school, shot eighteen people, killed six of them, then shot himself in the head.

“His club membership is on his family’s account, and the club is notorious for being negligent in the record-keeping department, so it’s not surprising they don’t know he’s dead.

“Anyway, I had a few dreams about you, too,” she changed the subject abruptly. “In this one, they reopened the Capital, and I swung by for lunch, and you had taken my old job, but you were badly in the weeds, and for some reason I thought it was a great idea to take you out behind the dumpster and blow your brains out.”

He shuddered. “You shot me?”

“What? No, I sucked your dick, you fool!” she exclaimed. “Although I can see where you got that, given what we were just talking about.”

Though the conversation on the first half of the drive had been dark, the mood lifted around the intersection of Westheimer and Beltway 8. Christyn had turned up the radio and alternated between singing along, smoking cigarettes, and pointing out various restaurants to mention, “I know a guy that works there.” Damian was leaning back in his seat with the seat warmer on, contentedly rubbing his belly and taking in the sights of the city. Every once in a while at a stoplight, Christyn would help him out. It felt so good when she slipped her hand under his sweater and shirt.

“You can push a little harder if you want; it helps with the pressure,” he told her. She pressed carefully on his belly, causing him to let out a whine of pleasure as he let his stomach muscles stretch and relax against her open hand.

“Damn, you’re packed tight...are you sure you’re okay? I didn’t mean to push you too hard,” she said at the red light at Bellaire.

“It’s fine. It feels good,” he said.

He still couldn’t believe she was as excited about his gain as he was, much less that she had signed on to help him carry on with it even further.

Just as they pulled up in the parking lot of his apartment, her phone vibrated. She put in her earbuds and answered curtly, “What have you got for me?” There was a pause, and then she went on. “Yeah, we spoke last week...no, on the phone. No, I’m not with him now, what am I, his keeper?” Another pause. “Fine.” Pause. “No, I meant ‘fine’ as in, in one piece, and as far as I know, mentally sound.” Pause. Something in Spanish, spoken into the receiver in a hushed tone. Pause. More Spanish, this time firmer on Christyn’s part, and finally, with no preceding pause, an entire screaming match in Spanish, followed by Christyn hanging up and throwing her phone into her bag.

“What was that all about?” asked Damian.

“That was Estrella. She has a lot of questions, concerns, and demands. Mostly, she wants to know why you haven’t been taking her calls.”

***

For some reason, Christyn had been operating under the assumption that Damian and Estrella were over, if they had ever been together. Still behind the wheel, with Carolaine parked and her ignition cut, she said, “What exactly is going on between you and Estrella?”

“Nothing!” said Damian. “I haven’t seen her in weeks! She’s called me a bunch, but I didn’t answer, and I’m not interested.”

“So you’re not her boyfriend?”

“No, fuck no! Did she say I was?”

“She used the B word. Well, actually, she used the N word.”

“What?”

“Novio, it’s the Spanish word for ‘boyfriend,’ but I can see why I made you a little confused just then.”

“Maybe we kissed like, once, but we’re definitely not dating. She’s nuts, you have to believe me!” said Damian.

“I believe you...and look...I don’t really know what’s going on between you and me...but I don’t want it to stop.” She reached across the center console and squeezed his hand. “Just please, do something about Estrella, okay?”


	16. FIFTEEN

**FIFTEEN**

Soon, the Rodeo started, and Christyn found herself busier than she had ever been in her life. The agency had her bartending up on the third level of the stadium, from which she had a view of the carnival down below which became a lovely display of colorful lights when the sun went down. That sight, along with text correspondence from Damian, was her only reprieve on her long shifts.

The work itself was monotonous; call drinks and draft beers all day long while the same cattle-roping competitions played on a screen day after day before the concerts, and the commute was Hell. She left her apartment two hours early to contend with traffic on the way to the stadium, and waited the same amount of time in traffic jams on her way out, even when she tried to detour through the backroads.

Still, she found time for Damian. On his court date, she got up early to drive him to the courthouse, and stopped at the donut shop on the way to his place to get him a sack of kolaches for the ride. By the time they arrived, he’d demolished them, not so much for the sexual thrill, but to calm his nerves. Along the ride, she told him about her shitty date with Paul Slater and what she had done to him.

“Christyn...that’s assault!” he said, but he sounded more excited than concerned. “I like that you’re kind of street.”

“Yeah? I like that you’re kind of punk rock.” Getting fat on purpose in the face of a society that held weight discrimination as the last politically acceptable prejudice? Very punk rock.

Before he got out of the car, she slipped a hand up his shirt.

“Christyn! I can’t have a boner in the courtroom,” he whined.

“I just want to make sure you’re nice and full for your long day ahead of you.”

“Aww, baby, that’s so sweet.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re making my heart feel as full as my gut is right now.”

A few days later, he texted her with an emergency: his boss was threatening him with a write-up if he showed up to work again in sweatpants, but he couldn’t get his slacks to close. He asked her if he could borrow $30 to replace them, but she had a better idea.

After her shift, she drove over to his place and arrived at midnight with a small sewing kit. He greeted her with a kiss at the door, and she pulled him in by the waist, giving his sides a squeeze. “What are we up to this week?” she asked.

“162.”

“That’s another two pounds just this week, you’re pretty good at this!” She still hadn’t let him go; days apart had made her ache with missing him. “That would explain why your work pants don’t fit, though. Let’s go inside, I’ll see what I can do.” She finally released him and followed him inside, pulling her sewing kit out of her bag.

“Oh, that’s right, you sew.” 

“Yeah, my aunt’s maid taught me. And you...draw, apparently,” she said, a stack of sketches on the kitchen table drawing her eye. They were quite good...most of them were of the city skyline, but there was one of the view from what she suspected was the courthouse, one of the Rodeo carnival (she’d sent him a few pictures she had taken on her phone), and one of herself, sitting on a beach, naked and rendered in loving detail.

“These are beautiful,” she said. “But...why am I coming out of a seal?”

“You’re a selkie…”

She saw his face flush with embarrassment, so she kissed one of his round cheeks and said, “I love it. I’d buy it off of you and hang it on my wall, but I’m sharing my apartment with someone right now and I don’t think I want him looking at me naked. Now let’s see this pair of pants, eh?”

She took his measurements and got to work. “It’s no wonder you can’t squeeze into these; they’re 30s and you’re a 34 now.”

“34,” he breathed. “I know it doesn’t sound like a lot, but this is the biggest I’ve ever been.” He sounded proud of himself, and she loved the excited note in his voice.

“Maybe we should take a picture,” she said, pausing over her sewing to whip out her phone and snap a quick one. She showed it to him and said, “There, now we have something to look back on, since this is the last time you’re ever going to be this thin.”

“Holy shit, keep talking like that.”

“Just wait,” she said, returning to the needle and thread. “After the Rodeo, I won’t be so busy. I’ll probably get a job close to here, with a predictable schedule, and on my off days I can come and cook for you, leave enough in the fridge to tide you over until the next time I come...you’ll forget what real hunger even feels like.”

“Christyn, you wicked witch! Tryna make me bust a nut over here.”

Looking around at the small apartment and the few trappings of his relatively Spartan lifestyle, she could see why he wanted what he did. Having someone to indulge him to the point of adding pounds to his frame sounded like some sort of perfect Proletarian dream.

“Here, try them on,” she said as she finished up. He started to head for the next room, but she said, “Hang on, do it here so I can see. Nothing I haven’t already seen, anyway.”

“Guess you’re right.” He took off his sweatpants, treating her to a view of just how snug his boxers were getting around his rounding middle and softer thighs. She felt herself begin to salivate.

He put the slacks on and thumbed the waistband. “There’s actually some room in these now. I don’t know how you did it.”

“Good,” said Christyn, “then you should have some incentive to make them fit.” She had the pants back off him in under a minute.

The next day Christyn had a full-blown existential crisis behind the bar. Last night’s sex session on Damian’s couch had been mind-blowing, but several hours later had her mind racing in circles, wondering, did she prefer him heavier because that was what she genuinely wanted, or because she liked to see him happy, or because 280-pound Jesse Markham had brainwashed her to think he was the sexiest man alive? He’d warped her brain; how much of his conditioning was still in there? She had at least four distinct versions of a memory of how they had met, all of them incongruent and probably planted by him to confuse her further into a state of helpless submission.

Eventually, she managed to take a few deep breaths and calm herself down, realizing that the nuances of her relationship with Damian couldn’t have anything to do with Jesse, because when she thought of Jesse now, she didn’t find anything sexy about him. He was the most horrible person she could imagine for using her as an object, brutalizing her whenever it suited him, and most of all, for hurting her best friend.

This train of thought had distracted her so much that she ended up absently pouring drinks well into the Pledge of Allegiance and got chastised by a supervisor.

She’d never really thought about it before, but having been thoroughly brainwashed and come out the other end, it now disturbed her to be living in a nation where everyone was brainwashed enough to ‘pledge allegiance’ to its flag, as often as once a day if they were in school, when its poorest citizens were so broke that for some, such a basic need as food was becoming a forbidden sexual pleasure, and nobody was doing a goddamn thing about it. She thought of all the cozy condos in trendy new buildings that sat vacant while homeless people shivered in the torrential east Texas rain. She thought of all the rich folks who woke up hungover and called a service to deliver an infusion treatment to their house so they could go right back to drinking while the working class died on waiting lists for liver transplants, placed her right hand upon her heart, and held her left behind her back, fingers crossed.

She didn’t see much of Alex at all, despite sleeping at his apartment most nights out of the week, which was a welcome reprieve. He had an annoying habit of practicing the electric guitar with his amp turned all the way up while she was trying to sleep. Additionally, he was a total restroom hog. She suspected his poor diet had something to do with why he was always stuck on the pot for so long. As obsessed as he was with working out, he ate only grilled chicken, plain rice, and mashed potatoes, occasionally opting for fried chicken and macaroni and cheese if he was having a cheat day, and refused to so much as look at a vegetable. He kept the pantry stocked with vitamins, and his shakes were full of micros as well, but all that was no substitute for the fiber in real food.

Since none of her Rodeo shifts began before noon, she slept in most days, and he was usually up and on the bus to McCarthy’s by the time she awoke. He’d be asleep by the time she returned from the stadium, or from Damian’s if she’d made a stop there. She had to leave her part of the rent under a magnet on the fridge for him to pick up, since they so rarely crossed paths, and while she did miss their playful mutual ribbing of one another, she didn’t miss the irritating parts of him.

She had a surprise encounter with Auralee at work one day with a slightly pudgy, twenty-something guy on her arm who was stumbling and leaning on her for support. “Chrissy, I didn’t know you were working the Rodeo!” she chirped. “Oh, I’ve told you about Sebastian, right?”

“I don’t know, Aura, you always text me at like three in the morning, and lately I haven’t had time to read them.”

“Some best friend! Anyway, I’ll have a hurricane and he’ll have a milk punch.”

“Will he?” asked Christyn, looking the drunk young man over with concern. 

“You’re right, you’re right,” Auralee pulled a $100 bill out of her purse and handed it to her date. “Go get yourself a pizza, alright? You need some food in your tummy to hold down all that liquor.”

“Thanks, Aura, y’wan’ anything?” he slurred.

“Don’t worry about me, we just need to get you fed! And Chrissy, make it strong!”

As he walked away, Auralee dropped her voice and said, “Would you believe I found him on the Internet? It was one of those feedist meet-and-greet sites. I saw that he was local, so I offered him a position barbacking at the bowling alley. He’s put on 30 pounds since he started working for me, and he’s crazy about it.”

“Is that how you’re recruiting these days?”

She made Auralee’s drink at normal strength, but Auralee wasn’t paying attention and tipped her $100 anyway.

“Well, we found you in the street, and you still made a great barback,” Auralee retorted. “You’re not going to believe me when I tell you this, but Sebastian can drink almost 200 cc’s of melted butter, straight.”

“That sounds like it would taste horrible,” said Christyn. “I mean, you guys do what makes you happy, but I don’t think I could bring myself to serve my feedee anything like that.”

Auralee’s eyes lit up. “You have a feedee?”

“I mean, if I had one,” said Christyn, her cheeks going red.

Auralee wasn’t buying it. “Wait, is his name Damian?”

“You and Damian talk?”

“We text. He made a house call once. He had a lot of questions about feedism. Recently he mentioned he’d landed himself a feeder...I thought you might be the lucky girl! Say, you should take him here on one of your days off! Let him see the carnival, give him free range on deep-fried everything. He’ll love it!”

“Only one problem there, Auralee: I don’t have any days off.”

***

Damian’s hand was white-knuckled around the phone when he finally took one of Stella’s calls. “About time! I was beginning to think you were dead!” she said over the line.

“Nope, still kicking. But hey, Stella--”

“Anyway, how’s it been? You have to catch me up. I miss you so much!”

“Not much is new...I got a job at the all-night drive through.”

“Yuck. I hope it hasn’t made you put on any weight.”

That gave him a brilliant idea, or at least, he thought it was brilliant.

He’d been so worried about the sort of raging fit she’d throw if he outright rejected her. So why not just let her reject him?

“A little, but it’s probably nothing I can’t drop in a week at the gym. Hey, what are you doing next Sunday?”

He was sitting at 165 now, and with a little determination he was sure he could clear 170 before too long.

Next Sunday came around, and he had completely forgotten about that phone call. He was off work, and had planned on sleeping all morning, but was awakened by his phone ringing. It was Auralee. “Damian, cancel your plans for the day.”

“I didn’t have any plans besides sleep, but what’s up?”

“We’re going to the Rodeo!”

“Wait, really?”

“Listen, Chrissy told me about you two, and she wishes she could take you herself, but she’s working, so we’re gonna go visit her. Be ready in an hour; Wadsworth will be there to pick you up.”

He quickly showered and dressed, and got into the car when it came. Wadsworth had the radio tuned to the hard rap station, which Damian found odd for an old white dude, but he was digging it. “So how long have you worked for Auralee?” he asked to pass the time.

“The Kingston family has employed me for generations. I remember when young Miss Kingston was in diapers,” said Wadsworth.

Young Miss Kingston...that was a funny way of putting it, Damian thought. He wasn’t used to thinking of Auralee as ‘young,’ but he supposed she was young to Wadsworth, and she had mentioned to him over text that she was the baby sister in her family.

“These days young Miss Kingston calls upon me often and tips generously. She appreciates a speed of service and my discretion about certain matters, although, if I’m to understand it from her, you’re already privy to the matters of which I speak. By the way, do tell Miss Brandywine I said hello.”

Wadsworth dropped him off at the stadium, where Auralee met him at the gate. “Damian! Great, you’re here! Here’s your pass. Hope you like country music!”

“Love it,” he said.

“Really?” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Okay, ‘my woman left me and now I’m off to drink myself to death’ country, or like, truck fucker country? There’s a difference.”

“Hey, don’t sleep on trucks. I want me a truck. I’ll call her Sweetheart and drive around in her at 100 miles an hour on the freeway, and when I’m leaving the bars I’ll be telling the guys that I’m finna take her home and fuck her right in her tailpipe, and no one will know if I’m serious or not. And I’ll have a window sticker that says ‘Cops Suck Dick,’ and when the cops pull me over and ask if I know why they pulled me over I’ll be like, to suck my dick?” He laughed. “In this perfect vision of my own future, I’m not afraid of cops no more. And if I do get that successful, I think I’ll get me a nice Rolex, too. That’ll be the second thing.”

“You are something else,” Auralee chuckled. “You don’t have any metal or sharp objects on you, do you? Any drugs?”

“I’m not stupid,” he said as she patted down the pockets of his clothing on the pretense of checking for weapons. “I figured there’d be security at this thing. Besides, I’m banned from possessing a firearm by order of the court.”

They made it through security just fine, although Damian was a little apprehensive about walking past the armed guards. Even though he knew they weren’t cops, he’d developed an occasional paranoia that he had warrants he didn’t know about that flared up whenever someone was armed and on the clock.

“We should probably save lunch for after the carnival rides,” said Auralee. “The last thing I need is for you to throw up on my dress.” She dropped the designer’s name, but he had never heard of them.

Damian wasn’t all too impressed by carnival rides--it was hard to find a thrill in something so artificial when he’d already been in a high-speed car chase against Houston’s finest by the time he had turned sixteen. But Auralee wanted to go on just about every one of them, so he joined her just to make sure they wouldn’t be separated. She had obviously been here before, but he could easily get lost.

At last satisfied, Auralee stumbled off one of the rides and said, “I love carnivals. Carnivals and circuses, but more the idea of those old-timey circuses. I always imagined I’d feel most at home among the freaks.” She dug a crisp $100 out of her wallet. “Go get yourself something to eat, kid. Whatever you want. And get a soda. And be sure and finish it.” He was sure that last bit was an attempt to get as many calories into him as possible, until she added, “And save me the can!”

What could she be up to?

He found a little food tent nearby with some tables and chairs set up in front and bought himself a plate of BBQ loaded up with sausage, brisket, mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole with mushrooms and bacon, and two extra pieces of cornbread. Auralee bought herself a drink from one of the bars and found him at the tent, where she claimed a table and patted the seat next to her. “No reason to eat standing up. Come here.”

As he sat down, he handed her her change and felt both bad that he’d thought about pocketing five or ten bucks out of it, and cheated out of the opportunity. She had been so nice to him...but she obviously didn’t need an extra couple bucks as much as he did. “Aren’t you going to have anything?”

“Obviously,” she said, raising her glass.

He had a lot of food on his plate, but he was pretty hungry after being dragged out here by Auralee without any breakfast. By the time she was through with her liquid lunch, he’d finished everything in front of him. He handed her the soda can, curious to see what she had planned.

“Come on, follow me. I’m about to teach you one of my tricks.”

She got up and made her way through the crowd, thankfully slowly enough that he could relax and digest while still keeping pace. She went from bar to bar, each time buying a shot of vodka, then, when she was far enough away, she poured each shot into the can. “What are you doing?” asked Damian.

“The TABC says you can’t serve intoxicated people, right? Well, this way, I can buy all the shots I want while I’m still relatively sober, and once I fill up the whole can, I can get as intoxicated as I want and nobody can stop me.” Several bars later, she slammed back a big gulp of vodka from the can and offered it out to him.

It tasted the way he imagined nail polish remover to taste, but it brought him a nice buzz, once he stopped coughing. “Auralee, do you think you could buy me another soda?”

She bought one from a nearby vendor before checking her watch. “The show’s about to start! Come on, she’ll be on the third floor of the stadium.”

Christyn was stationed at one of the small liquor bars right outside one of the entrances to the seating area. There were prominent bags under her eyes and she looked to have lost a little weight; her face was thinner and her vest had room where it used to be snug. It wasn’t that he found her less attractive; he was just worried about her the way he imagined she was worried about him after seeing him fresh out of jail, and he knew he’d breathe a sigh of relief once the Rodeo was over and she could relax again.

A smile stretched across her tired features as he walked up to her bar. “Damian! What are you doing here?”

“Auralee took me. I think she went to find her seat already.”

As the concert started and the crowd in the bar area began to thin, Damian decided to stick around Christyn’s bar and watch it on the TV. “How’s work been?” he asked her.

“I’m a mess, Damian,” she confessed. “I’ve probably had ten panic attacks this week, worrying that Jesse’s going to show up here. Thank God it’s the last day, I don’t know that I could make it any longer.”

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” he said, reaching across the bar to take her hand.

“I know, but a part of me still feels like he’s in my head, and it terrifies me. Can I stay over at your place tonight? I don’t want to sleep alone.”

As much as his heart broke to hear that she was still hurting, he was thrilled at the prospect of getting to hold her in his arms all night. “My door is always open to you,” he said. “I hope one day you’ll be able to forget about that asshole...but I’m glad I’m the one you chose to make you feel safe.”

Halfway through the concert, Auralee stumbled back to the bar, bracing herself against the counter with her hands. “Fuck my life, Sid McGowan is here.”

“Who?” asked Damian.

“My ex-boyfriend. Met him in high school, dated him for a few years after that,” explained Auralee.

“That guy who liked big girls, who used to come around the bowling alley and bring you donuts?” said Christyn.

“The one who dumped me, stone cold, after I got the operation, yep,” said Auralee. “He’s here with my high school rival, too. I just hope they don’t come over here.”

She must have jinxed it with her words, because less than a minute later, a man walked up smirking with a woman on his arm. He was tall, blond, and clearly athletic, and she had a lovely, robust figure probably pushing the lower 250s. She wore a red flower in her dark hair and a flattering flowy top and skirt.

“Auralee! What a surprise to see you here. I barely recognize you.”

“Well, you found me in the crowd,” said Auralee, still holding onto the bar for support.

“It’s no easy feat; you’re a much smaller target these days.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you, Sid?”

“My apologies; I haven’t introduced my beautiful wife. But you must of course remember Linda?”

“We’ve met,” said Auralee tensely. She finally turned around to face her tormentor, but she swayed on her feet. Pushing her hair back out of her face, she tried to say something, but it came out gibberish.

“You’ve certainly changed since our days in school,” said Linda.

“You were so beautiful back then,” said Sid. “So, what brings you to the Rodeo, drunk and alone?”

At that, she laughed, but Damian knew that sometimes she laughed when she was sad.

As he watched all this happen, an anger rose up inside him on Auralee’s behalf. “I have to help her,” he told Christyn. “Please don’t be jealous.”

“Do what you have to do.”

He stepped up and put an arm around Auralee’s waist. “Who said she was alone? Hi, Damian, pleasure to meet.” He extended a handshake to Sid, who met him halfway limply. “Anyway, Aura, baby, I don’t want to take you away from conversating, but didn’t you promise to buy me dessert?”

As he led her away from the other two, Auralee said, “Thanks for that.”

“No problem. And forget about that guy! He’s a dick. He shouldn’t think he can treat you like shit in public just because he doesn’t want to nut in you anymore. And besides, this stadium is probably full of men that would die to have you.”

“It’s about more than just a guy, but thanks.” She leaned on him for support, but even still, she drawled, “I’m about ready for another drink. There’s more vodka in my car...and if we leave now we can beat traffic!”

He began to panic. “We’re not riding with Wadsworth?”

“I can’t call him at this time of night, are you crazy?”

“Seems crazier for you to drive!”

“Relax, I’m fine.”

He turned to Christyn and whispered, “Help me!”

“Stall her,” she replied. “I’m still on for at least twenty minutes, but after that I’ll shut down the bar as fast as I can and you guys can hitch a ride with me.”

Auralee insisted it would be faster to take the stairs down rather than wait for the elevator, but it wasn’t that fast, with her being unsteady on her feet as she was. It was a miracle Damian was able to keep her from falling. As they got to the bottom and she started dragging him in the direction of the parking lot, he tried to remember what Christyn had taught him about...what had she called it? Neurolinguistic programming?

Rule number two: ask nicely.

Rule number three: if you can’t get someone to do the thing they don’t want to do--in this case, pass up an opportunity to get even more shitfaced--start with something smaller they might agree to.

“Hey, Auralee,” he said, tugging on her hand, “I wasn’t kidding about dessert earlier.”

“Oh?”

“Lunch was hours ago, and I’m so hungry,” he said, looking up at her with pleading eyes.

“How bad is it?” He could see her starting to crack, but he thought he might exaggerate a little to drive the point home.

“My stomach is really hurting, Auralee. I think I can feel the acid eating at my insides. I need some food so badly. Do you think you can buy me one of them funnel cakes? Please?”

That was all it took to make her melt. “Well, you are a growing boy,” she said, and fell into line in front of one of the vending stands. This was great--the line alone would take at least twenty minutes to get through, and by that point, Christyn would be on her way down.

***

Status report? Christyn texted Damian as she finished cleaning her bar, gathered her things, and pushed her way through the crowd of patrons and other employees. Damian’s response came moments later.

Managed to finesse her into sticking around, meet us at the bench by the Ferris wheel

The tension in her body eased as she headed that way. “You know, spoiling my feedee is supposed to be my job,” she said as she came up on the two, Damian finishing up a huge plate of funnel cake that Auralee had bought him.

“He just gave me the puppy dog eyes, and I couldn’t say no!”

Christyn and Damian shared a secret smile. She’d have to congratulate him on his quick thinking later. “Now, if you’ve both had enough of the festivities, it’s time to go home.”

After they dropped Auralee off at her ivory tower apartment, Damian said, “You know, I like her. She’s like a weird, fun aunt I never had.”

“She’s a character,” Christyn agreed. “And I bet she made sure you got to eat good today, huh?”

“Yeah, she took care of me,” he said, then stammered, “S-she bought me a decent amount of food, that’s all I mean.”

“Relax, I’m not jealous.” Still parked in front of Auralee’s, she hiked up the armrest of her seat, leaned over, and slipped a hand underneath his shirt, splaying it against his middle. “Mmm, nice and full...I bet I know what you want to do now.” She kissed him deeply and he pulled her closer by her shoulders. When the kiss broke, she said, “Shall we get back to your place?”

“Yes please!”

They had barely gotten out of the car in the parking lot at Damian’s building before they were upon each other, all needy kisses and desperate groping hands. Somehow, they made it across the asphalt to his porch, where she pinned him against the door and pressed her body into his as they kissed. “By the way,” he said when he came up for air, “I really liked it back at the carnival when you said I was yours.” Then, suddenly, she felt a new hand on her shoulder. She broke away and turned around just in time to get sucker-punched in the face.

It was Estrella, and boy, did she look pissed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Damian muttered.

“I knew you were a liar, Christyn!” Estrella snapped. “And Damian, you have some nerve!”

Still reeling from the punch, Christyn looked to Damian. “What is she doing here? What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on, I’m about to put this bitch’s lights out!” Estrella went in for another attack, but this time Damian was quick enough to stop her, holding her arms behind her back. “Let me go!” she screeched, thrashing in his grip.

“Look, Stella, calm down!” he pleaded with her. “I should have told you about me and Christyn. I should have let you down easy a long time ago. But can’t we just all talk about this like adults?”

At first, this just seemed to make her angrier. She fought harder against him, but he had her in an inescapable hold. Then, finally, she seemed to give up. “Fine. We can talk. Please let me go. I need something from my car.”

Damian released her, convinced by her performance. Christyn, however, was not, and as Estrella walked off into the parking lot, she decided it was time to make her own exit.

“Christyn, wait!” Damian followed after her until she got into her car. “Please stay. I can explain everything.” Her window was still rolled down all the way from when she’d been chain smoking on the way over, and just like she had those many months ago when he’d tried to leave her apartment complex drunk, he hooked his elbow over her car door.

She took his hand, mustered up her strength, and yanked him, whole-ass, through the window, letting him land face down with his forearms braced against the passenger’s seat. “Then explain on the road. She said she was getting something from her car, and I have a hunch what it is, but I don’t want to stick around here and find out if I’m right.” 

She keyed the ignition while Damian scrambled into his seat. “How the hell did you do that?” he breathed. “You’re a mutant!”

“You’re only slightly harder to move than a full keg of beer. Now, about that explanation?”

As she drove, meandering a bit to throw Estrella off in case she was in pursuit, Damian told her how he had planned to invite Stella over and let her reject him over his recent weight gain, but forgot what day he’d told her to come. “So instead of pulling up, seeing you, and deciding you got too fat for her, she pulled up, saw me all over you, and flew into a jealous rage,” Christyn concluded. “Dude, you have got to plan these things better.”

She arrived at Alex’s and led the way up the stairs. “My roommate works in the morning, so we shouldn’t fuck like animals and keep him up all night, but you can stay with me in my bed tonight if you want to get a little tipsy. I know I do.”

“I just want to hold you and make sure you’re alright,” said Damian. “Don’t get me wrong, I want to fuck you...but that can wait.”

She put the key in the lock and went inside.

For once, Alex was home. He was practicing guitar on the living room sofa with the TV muted. “Alex, this is Damian. Damian, Alex.”

“You’re the new boyfriend, I guess?” said Alex, and Christyn saw Damian crack a smile. She wound an arm around his waist.

“Yes, he’s mine.”

Their sweet moment was short-lived, as soon, the lock on the door appeared to turn of its own accord. “Shit, who invited him?” Christyn muttered, trying to conceal her dread, but her voice trembled and she started to shake all over, and Damian picked right up on it, holding her in an attempt at comfort.

When Jesse strode in, he had a relaxed air about him, as if he lived here.

“Hey! How’d you even get in here? Get the fuck out!” snapped Alex.

“He picked the lock, he’s done it at my place, too,” said Christyn. Steeling her will, she stepped out of Damian’s embrace and confronted Jesse. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just on my way home from a late night at the office, and I thought I might pay my cousin a visit...then I saw my slave girl’s car drive into his complex, and I thought, isn’t this the development? I thought perhaps you had repented, that you wanted your Master back and in your desperation, you may have resorted to using Alexander to make me jealous. But really?” He gave her and Damian the once-over and said, “You ended up with the idiot barback instead? And, what’s more…” A slow smirk spread across his face. “You know, you can put a couple pounds on the guy, kitten, but you won’t recreate what you and I had.”

“It was my idea, dickwad,” Damian muttered.

Jesse didn’t even look at him. “Wow, Christyn, that is a nice touch. You may have more of a flair for mind control than I--”

BANG! Before he could finish his sentence, the door flew open, kicked at full force. “CHRISTYN, IT’S TIME TO EAT LEAD, YOU WHORE!” Estrella screeched, fixing Christyn’s head right in the scope of a semi-automatic assault rifle.

“Oh, come on, it wasn’t even locked that time!” Alex complained.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, put the gun down, little girl,” said Jesse, his intonation sounding almost bored. He grabbed the gun around the barrel and jerked it towards the ceiling; Estrella fired a shot but it didn’t shake Jesse’s grip as the bullet went through the plaster, and soon, he had it yanked out of her hands and threw it across the room.

“Great, how much is that going to cost me?” Alex grumbled, staring at the hole in the ceiling.

“I wouldn’t worry, Stella. Christyn is no threat to you; she still belongs to me deep down. And as for Damian...well, I might be willing to teach you a few tricks to get him under your spell. Why, a beautiful young lady such as yourself--”

“Alright, alright,” Alex interrupted, picking up an empty bottle off a nearby end table and breaking it open at the bottom to brandish it as a weapon. “I’ve got four of y’all in my house now. One pays rent and one is with her, but I’m gonna need the rest of y’all to get the fuck out!”

“You call this a house?” remarked Jesse.

“And I don’t belong to you anymore!” said Christyn, glaring defiantly at Jesse even as anxiety tore her insides to shreds.

“How can you be so sure?” said Jesse. His voice had dropped to that low, dark croon that used to lull her easily into a state of complacency, but now, she was on her guard. “You say that, but you know that with a snap of my fingers, I can still take away all of your self-control.”

“It won’t work.”

“We’ll see, kitten.”

SNAP!

Christyn laughed. He had no more power over her. Of course he hadn’t! But then...then she couldn’t stop laughing. Then, she started to hyperventilate, terrified by what was happening to her. Her surroundings seemed to distort before her eyes. She reached out a hand in front of herself and tried to bend her fingers. They bent, but seemingly of their own accord; she felt disembodied. She couldn’t feel it in her throat, but she heard her gasps and laughter turn into a series of struggled shrieks of panic. She felt the same way she had the one and only time she’d ever tried marijuana.

“What the fuck did you do to her?” Damian demanded, but he didn’t stick around for an answer, instead guiding her out the door while she fought to catch her breath.

Removed from the situation, she began to feel her clarity returning to her, but it wasn’t until they had reached her car that she was one hundred percent back to normal.

“What are we gonna do now?” asked Damian.

“I don’t know.”

They ended up driving all night and into the morning. Christyn ran low on gas at one point, but was able to fill up at a Circle K on Richmond Avenue and kept going. They must have driven the length of the city before she stopped in Hermann Park for a nap in the driver’s seat. When she woke up, she was laying across the center console with her head in Damian’s lap and he was holding her hand.

“Sorry, must have moved around in my sleep,” she said, righting herself.

“It’s alright. You’re cute when you sleep, even if you snore a little.”

“Hey, what’s your tattoo mean?” she asked, fingertips brushing the bit of lettering inked into his upper forearm, which she’d never thought to ask about before, but decided to now, as if they were just taking a normal trip to the park and she hadn’t had a gun pointed to her head less than a day ago.

“It’s ancient Swahili for ‘hope’. I did it myself while I was in juvie.”

“I like that.”

She drove for a little while after that before he asked if they could stop for lunch. “Sorry, I didn’t even notice the time, and I’m still too stressed out to be hungry.”

“You’re the opposite of me, then."

He must have been under a tremendous amount of stress, because when she took him to a little Chinese buffet nearby that she knew Jesse hated, he cleared four plates while she had to force herself to finish two veggie egg rolls so she wouldn’t faint at the wheel. He looked like he was about to pass out in the booth by the time she paid the bill, but he said he felt better.

Eventually, she had to take him back to his place so he could get ready for work. He was understandably worried that Estrella might be hanging around, lurking behind a fikas or something, but Christyn told the building’s security to be on the lookout for a young woman matching her description and carrying a big gun.

Once she was alone, the anxiety set in once more. She called Alex to make sure the coast was clear at home before heading that way. While she was on the road, Auralee phoned her up in a worried state. “Chrissy, are you okay? Damian just told me over text that the craziest shit happened to y’all!”

“I’m glad you called, Aura,” said Christyn. “I’m on my way to Alex’s to get a few things, but after that, I don’t think I want to stay there for long. I need somewhere else to stay, where Jesse doesn’t know where to find me.”

“You can stay with me!” Auralee offered.

“I’m thinking farther out. Jesse knows you; if he looks for me again, yours is the first place he’ll go. I was gonna call an apartment locator, but since I have you on the line, I thought maybe you could help me out. I’ll compensate you, of course.” As wealthy as her family was, Auralee must know a couple of property managers who would be willing to cut a friend a good deal, right?

“Don’t even worry about payment. I’ll find you a place. In fact, maybe I’ll find us a place.”

“You want to move in with me?” asked Christyn. “But I thought you loved it at the penthouse?”

“Yeah, but my lease expires at the end of the month, and since they’re starting to install these ‘smart’ appliances hooked up to Wi-Fi in every unit, I decided not to renew. The last thing I want is my fridge talking to my doctor when all I have in there is cake for my boys and liquor. So what do you say?”

“Sounds like a plan, so long as you stay out of the kitchen. I don’t want you burning down the place drunk.”

When she got home, she packed up her work clothes and a bag of toiletries. She showered quickly and picked up a shift downtown at the convention center banquet waiting for a gala. Over the course of her shift, she formulated a plan that might just be crazy enough to shake Jesse off her trail.

She slept in her car that night. She could have gone to a motel, but she was worried that Jesse would call every motel in town and ask if she was there. She didn’t know if he was truly obsessed enough to do that, but she was taking no chances.

On Wednesday, she bought a gun.

It was a small 9-mm pistol that fit nicely in her grip. After completing the process to obtain her license to conceal and carry, she called one of her colleagues from the Rodeo and invited him to come to the range and shoot with her. He was experienced; she was not, but he showed her the ropes and by the end of four hours, she was quite an accurate marksman. She kept the gun in her glove box in case she’d have to use it, and never stopped watching her back.

On Thursday, she returned to Alex’s, but only to pick up some plastic bags and a couple of the 20-lb weights he used in his workouts. He had so many of them, he wouldn’t miss one pair. That night, she practiced tying knots in the bags like the ones she used to use to secure the prep bags of frozen food while she helped out in the kitchen at the bowling alley. Practiced untying them. Practiced untying them with 20-lb weights tied to her ankles. She drove to the edge of the Kegan’s Bayou, stripped down to her essentials, walked to the edge of the water, and practiced drowning.

On Friday, the call came in from Auralee: “I found us a place. By the end of today you should get a call from your uncle Chester’s bank so you can go sign for the rights to the estate in Richmond he’s left you in his last will and testament.”

“Last will--? That means he’s--!”

“Seducing him into writing you in was so easy.”

“And then you murdered him?”

“You’d be surprised how easy it is to fake an accidental overdose these days.”

Christyn didn’t know why she was shocked. She had seen Auralee get away with some pretty psychotic things in the past. “Jesus, Auralee, I actually liked my uncle.”

“You have got to stop forgiving that lecher. If you found out someone in Damian’s family had touched him while he was underage, how would you feel?”

Auralee was right, but was a murder really justified here? Christyn tried not to think of the words ‘horrified’ or ‘morally bankrupt’. She was in too deep to turn back now.

Before going to the bank, she washed her hair in the sink of a bathroom at a fast food joint and redid her makeup in the rear view of her car.

On Saturday, she texted Damian to inform him of her plan. Then, at sunset, she parked on the shoulder of the overpass overlooking the bayou, left everything that wasn’t waterproof (phone, social security, cigarettes, etc) in her glove box, and texted Jesse.

I’m sorry, Master. 

She told him where to find her.

Then, she called the police. “Hello, 911? I’m driving down Beltway 8 and I think I just witnessed a suicide in progress.”

Jesse showed up first on the scene. “What have you got to say for yourself, kitten?”

When he arrived, she was sitting on the edge of the overpass, next to the weights and plastic bags.

“Oh, Master...I’m so glad you came!”

In the distance, sirens blared.

“You made it very clear the last time we spoke that if you couldn’t have me, no one should. Well, Master, I wanted to make things right.” She attached the weights to her ankles and watched his face go pale.

“I never said that. Kitten, let’s talk.”

“But I’m such a bad submissive.”

“It doesn’t matter! I take you back!” he declared.

“I don’t deserve you. I need to be punished.”

By now, the cops had pulled up.

Jesse tried to talk to her, but she couldn't hear him over the blaring sirens or the negotiator shouting at her through a megaphone.

Exactly as she planned it.

What she hadn’t planned was for Damian to show up.

She saw him pushing his way through the small crowd of spectators who had begun to gather around. She had told him over text to stay away tonight, but apparently he had decided showing up would make for a better performance. “Christyn, what are you thinking?” he shouted over the sirens.

“It has to be this way!” she screamed back.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but please, don’t do this!”

Were...were those tears in his eyes?

Damn, he was good.

“I’m sorry!” she shouted, and let herself fall backwards into the bayou.

The water hit her like a cold, hard slap, and she sank all the way to the bottom where she knew from practice that the water was shallow. She could hold her breath for almost a full four minutes, so she counted two in her head before untying herself from her bonds. She planned to come up under the overpass and slip past the cops into the nearby wooded area, wait out the hours, and pick up her car when the coast was clear...but even though the water was calm, even though she knew she could swim, she felt herself being dragged to the surface way too fast, and something had her around the waist.

She came up on solid ground facedown. Bracing her hands against the earth, she pushed herself up, looking around. Damian was beside her, his hand on her back. “So, you thought you’d die with me, huh?” she said. “You do realize how much more complicated this is going to make things, right? They’re going to have to investigate a double suicide in the absense of two corpses now.”

“What are you talking about? Chrissy, I thought you were about to die!” There was a tremor in his voice. Her heart dropped.

“You mean...that on the overpass...that wasn’t a performance? Damian, didn’t you get my text?”

“What text? Shit, my phone bill’s not paid…”

They must have cut off his service.

She quickly brought him up to speed on her plan to fake her own death to evade Jesse. Before he could even respond, police flooded the bank of the bayou. One of them slammed Damian facedown on the ground and put him in handcuffs.

“Damian! What? No!”

And there, standing above her, was Jesse, smirking triumphantly. “Nice ruse, kitten. You almost had me fooled. But as usual, you’ve done nothing but make a mess of your life and others’ without me. Before your little lover boy dove in to ‘save’ you, he punched a cop who was impeding his way. Assault of an officer is a serious offense, you know.”

It made bile rise up in her throat to hear him talking to her like he’d won. She was almost grateful when they put her in cuffs, too.

They held her under psychiatric supervision for three days, but after that, they had to let her go. She cooperated with the staff and ate the meals they brought her, even if the thought of Damian going back to jail brought her to nausea. They’d been nice enough to make accomodations for her vegetarianism, so she’d feel bad if she let their small mercy go to waste. Upon release, she picked up her car from the tow lot and made one last trip home for the rest of her essentials. While she packed, Auralee rang her.

“Hey, what’s up?” she asked.

“What’s up? What’s up? I thought we were moving in together! Instead you disappear for three days!”

“Yeah, that’s still the plan, Aura,” she said through the haze of depression that had washed over her from missing Damian. “It’s a long story, I’ve just been under a tremendous amount of stress.”

“Alright, well, my lease is up, like, yesterday, so you need to come over here right now and give me my set of keys to the new place so we can go.”

“Hey, do you know the specifics on how to bail someone out of jail?”

“Oh my god, Chrissy, shut up! You know everything’s tapped these days. We’ll talk when you get to my place.” As she hung up, Christyn thought she heard the hint of a secret in her voice. Over the years, she had learned how to pick up when Auralee was being mischievous. But she was too sad to put much thought into it, so she drove to Auralee’s with the radio on full blast to drown out her thoughts.

Only when she got there, Damian tackled her with a hug before Auralee could even let her through the door. “What--? How--?”

“I didn’t want to say anything over the phone,” said Auralee. “You know there’s no such thing as privacy in the information age. But go on, dude, tell Chrissy what you did!”

“I managed to smooth-talk my way out of jail halfway through processing!” he explained to her. “Your NLP stuff did the trick! I didn’t know where else to go, so I called Aura, and she told me y’all were supposed to move in together, so I camped out here and we’ve both been waiting to hear from you. I was worried they were gonna throw you in county!”

“No, just suicide watch, and don’t you even get me started on worry! I thought you were in jail!”

“He’s supposed to be in jail, which means technically, he’s a fugitive,” said Auralee. 

“Yeah, I forgot to think through what I’d do at this point,” Damian admitted sheepishly.

“You’re coming with us! Is it even a question?” said Christyn. “If that’s what you want, of course.”

“Damn, if getting to move in with two feeders is what I get for assaulting an officer, maybe I should punch some more!”

Auralee was going to be a few hours delayed, since all of her stuff needed to be hauled into the moving van downstairs, so Christyn decided to get a head start on the trip with Damian. On the way, she stopped at a grocery store and picked him up a burner phone and a prepaid debit card, so the police couldn’t track his calls or transactions, along with a chicken salad wrap for him and a platter of vegetable sticks and dip for them to split. “Oh, thank God, real food,” he said when she came back. “All Auralee keeps in the house is desserts and alcohol. By the end of the second day I felt like I was about to be in a coma.”

“My poor baby! Don’t worry. I’m here now, and I’ll make sure you stay properly nourished,” Christyn reassured him. “Other than that, how was your visit with Auntie Aura?”

Over the forty-five minute drive, he told her all about his stay at the penthouse. He and Auralee had watched short films and gotten drunk together while the movers handled the packing of her things. Jesse came calling once--just like she had guessed--but they had kept all the lights off and pretended not to be home. They even built a blanket fort and roasted marshmallows.

At last, they came up on the house, a ten-bedroom, sprawling estate in the middle of nowhere with no neighbors for at least a mile in every direction. “Holy shit,” Damian breathed, his eyes going wide. “You inherited this?”

“Aura pulled some strings for me, but yes, the house is in my name.”

“I’ve never seen a house so big! Note to self: definitely punch more cops!”


	17. SIXTEEN

Part 3. La Dolce Vita

**SIXTEEN**

The first few weeks at the mansion were exciting. Christyn got hired on the spot as a bartender at the nearby Hotel Flamenco days after moving in. They started her on a fulltime schedule of mornings on Mondays and Tuesdays, with Wednesdays and Thursdays off, opening one Friday and closing the next, and nights on the weekends. On her days off she picked up the occasional shift with ABC and drove back into the city, but she still felt like she had plenty more free time than she was used to having. Not having to worry about rent was greatly liberating, and every once in a while it blew her mind all over again that she was really out here, starting a new life in a new town and exploring uncharted sexual territory with a full-fledged fugitive of the law.

One Wednesday evening off, she pulled out her phone at the dinner table and decided to initiate a conversation with Damian she thought was long overdue. “I’ve been reading up about feedism, and I wanted to take an inventory of what you’d like to do, as well as your hard limits,” she said.

“My...what?”

“You know, the stuff you don’t want to do,” she explained. “Can you think of anything?”

He was drawing a blank, so she decided to give him some prompting. “You gave me some numbers when we first started talking about this, remember? You asked me how I’d feel if you reached 230 pounds. Is that a goal you have in mind?”

“I guess kind of a fantasy,” he said. “But I would really like to get there in real life.”

“Only 230?” said Auralee from the doorway.

Auralee had taken up residence in one of the back bedrooms on the first floor, for a modest rent of $300 that Christyn was reluctant to take at first, but Auralee had assured her that she would end up owing at least that much in liquor alone if Christyn did all the shopping. Her presence was sprawling; already, Christyn was finding her clothes, jewelry, shoes without mates, and empty liquor bottles strewn in odd places all over the house, and the air in the halls wafted with the scent of her sweet, candy-like perfume. She had opted out of joining Christyn and Damian for dinner tonight, even though Christyn had made her, if she could toot her own horn, amazing three-bean vegetarian meatloaf, about which Damian had been skeptical at first, but which had impressed him so much that he asked for a second helping. That didn’t stop her, however, from shambling in and out of the kitchen, drinking vodka straight out of the handle and inviting herself intermittently into their conversation.

“Seems a shame not to shoot for at least 3.”

“300 pounds?!” Damian blurted. “N-no, I definitely want to cap it at 230 for now.”

“230 it is, then,” said Christyn. “Now, is that a goal, or a limit?”

“I guess both.”

“Alright, now we’re getting somewhere. Let’s see, what else? We already know that eating until you can barely move gives you a massive erection for some reason,” Christyn went on. She couldn’t imagine what that was like, herself. She was a pragmatist when it came to food--she ate when she was hungry, stopped when she was satisfied, and if she were to ever overdo it, the last thing she’d feel like doing afterwards was have sex.

“That actually makes a lot of sense,” Auralee supplied. “When you’re full, your stomach presses down on your internal sex organs, including the prostate for males, which some people find extremely pleasurable.” With that, she wandered out for a cigarette.

“Huh. The more you know, I guess,” said Christyn. “There’s a lot of other stuff in this kink, too. Is being fed with a funnel or a tube something you’d be interested in?” she asked, pulling up somebody’s blog entry on her phone for reference. She passed it across the table to him so he could take a look at the photos.

“No,” he said, shaking his head frenetically. “A spoon would be hot, though.”

“Would you want me to tie your hands while I did it?”

“Then I couldn’t touch you,” he pointed out, looking disheartened at the prospect.

“Gotcha, striking out rope bondage,” said Christyn. She took back her phone and continued to scroll through the feedist blogosphere. “What about...hang on, what’s this?” she muttered as she stumbled upon a particularly puzzling post. “What is ‘weight gain powder’?” she muttered to herself more than anyone else.

Damian shrugged. “Powder that makes you gain weight?”

“HOLY SHIT, REALLY?” said Christyn, unable to hold back the snark.

“It’s that protein powder bodybuilders buy at the grocery store to try and bulk up, but don’t waste your money,” said Auralee, who had reappeared in the doorway. “You can get more calories on the dime if you just mix heavy cream with maltodextrin. Alternatively, you can mix maltodextrin with peanut butter and put it on everything.”

“What’s maltodextrin?” asked Damian.

“Just an insulin trigger,” said Auralee. “It’ll open up your fat cells so that whatever calorie source you’re using, cream or peanut butter or what have you, can get dumped directly in there. You can buy it online and it’s probably the most cost-efficient way to see a fast gain.”

“Insulin trigger?” Christyn repeated. “Hang on now, I don’t want to give him diabetes!” She took his hand and gave it a protective squeeze under the table.

“He’ll be fine. Bodybuilders use this stuff, too. Trust me, my brother is a doctor.”

“I thought your brother was dead,” said Damian.

“JD’s deceased; Ashton’s a doctor.”

“He’s a psychiatrist!” Christyn recalled. “Besides, you only talk to him when you want fake scripts!”

“They’re real scripts,” Auralee protested. “They’re just for medications that I don’t personally need.”

“Like that makes it better?”

“I think I’m gonna go with Chrissy on this one. Besides, drinking cream straight sounds gross,” said Damian.

“That...surprises me. You take two creamers in your iced tea,” said Christyn.

“Yeah, I like it in stuff, but not alone.”

“What about water bloating?” suggested Auralee.

“What would be the point? Ain’t no calories in water,” said Damian.

“Capacity training. Stretch your stomach out so you can eat more.”

“No!” said Christyn, giving his hand another squeeze. She had done extensive research in order to put the shreds of herself back together after years of alcoholism, including addressing a case of chronic dehydration, and the information she had gathered told her Auralee’s idea was a bad one. “Water toxicity can be fatal. If you drink more than your body can handle, you can flood your brain.”

“It doesn’t sound like fun, anyway,” said Damian.

“Well, what about inflation?” proposed Auralee.

“In this economy, I sure as fuck hope not,” said Christyn.

Auralee rolled her eyes. “Not that kind of inflation. I’m talking about sticking a bike pump hose up your--”

“I don’t think I need to hear anymore,” said Damian.

He cleaned the last of his mashed potatoes from his plate, and Christyn stood up to clear the dishes. “I think I’ve got you figured out,” she said. “You’re a sweet guy with simple needs. You like to be spoiled and you’re an epicurean at heart.”

“A what?”

“It means you enjoy good food,” she said. She put the dishes in the sink and returned to him in his seat, where she ruffled his hair before holding his head against her own body. He let slip a sigh of pleasure at their contact. “And you like physical intimacy; to touch and be touched, that is...I can definitely work with these parameters.”

Auralee had thankfully returned to the patio for another smoke. Christyn bent down and stole a kiss from Damian before grabbing him by the front of his shirt and dragging him to bed.

***

She was having more fun than she’d had in any of her past relationships. She’d thought at first that slipping into the role of a feeder was just something she was doing to make Damian happy, but more and more, she found it warmed her heart when he complimented her cooking at lunch or dinner, or when the smell of her baking lured him to the kitchen and he couldn’t help but take one of her cupcakes out of the pan and stuff it in his mouth the moment she took a batch out of the oven.

Under her instruction, he became an expert at pleasuring her, too. She taught him how to eat her like she was his favorite dessert, savoring her slowly as he sucked her clit and rewarding him with wet blowjobs and passionate sex. He wasn’t subtle about his admiration for thick women, but showed an initial hesitation about breaching her boundaries and making her self-conscious--a hesitation she broke down one night in bed when she took his hand and placed it on her stomach after she’d caught him looking. “You can touch me where I’m soft, too,” she said. “Go ahead and give me a squeeze. It feels good, I promise.” It was a welcome bliss to be played with and adored, especially after a long day at work.

The Hotel Flamenco was owned by Robert and Sylvia Walker, who ran the place on principles of unchecked nepotism. Their three bratty daughters worked as waitresses even though the youngest and brattiest, Ruby, wasn’t old enough to serve alcohol. Within the first month of her employment, Christyn was written up for keeping somebody’s tab open--apparently, there was a rule in place that nobody had told her about stating that only servers, not bartenders, were allowed to hold tabs. It was completely backwards and clearly designed to keep money in the family.

The next week she and the food and beverage manager, Esteban, found both their paychecks deducted from, the reason being that they had split an extra pizza that the kitchen had made by mistake. “You ate it, so I went ahead and charged you for it. You still got the employee discount,” Sylvia reasoned. Esteban had tried to fight her on it, but she was having none of it, and she even went so far as to call him a ‘thief’ of the ‘generous wage’ she paid him, all because he had called in a few days earlier to take care of his wife, who had come down with a serious case of influenza.

As frustrating as it was, she was able to put her work stress out of her mind when she came home to Damian. She always made sure to feed him well, and she was loving the effect her pampering had on his body. The next ten pounds suited him well, the weight distributing evenly to soften his arms, chest, thighs, and ass, and push his belly an inch or so further past the waistband of his sweatpants. He looked as if his body had always wanted to fill out, but had simply never been given the chance until now. At this point, the slacks she’d taken out for him stood no chance of getting up past his ass, and she couldn’t resist giving it a playful smack to watch it jiggle when she caught him trying one afternoon. Knowing she was personally responsible for the comfortable, decadent lifestyle that was steadily filling out his frame made her desperately wet in a way that caught her unawares. After dinner, it was often straight to bed, where she delighted in exploring every added inch of his body and riding him to the most powerful orgasms she’d ever had in her life. It was enough to make her ignore the dishes that were still in the sink from the previous night when she came home from work, at least for a long while.

Then one day at work, she had a particularly frustrating party of old white ladies take up her whole bar-top, all order soda pop, run her back and forth from the kitchen several times to fetch them extra condiments, and all stiff her on what had to amount to over $300 in sales. She and the other two bartenders (Christopher and Kristen--yeah, that caused more than a little confusion on the clock, until they all agreed to shorten it to Chrissy, Topher, and Sten) still had to tip out the barback, the busboy, and, for some reason, the server, even though at every other restaurant it was the servers who had to tip out the bar, and she got an alert on her phone that the cable company had charged her account $40.

After work, the other bartenders and Esteban invited Christyn to come out drinking with them, but she politely declined. “I got a man at home waiting up for me,” she stated as the reason, but she really wanted to see what was going on with the cable bill.

Earlier that morning, she’d done all the dishes in the sink, but otherwise, the house was just as much of a mess as it had been when she arrived home. She found Damian and Auralee in front of the TV, passing a pipe between the two of them. 

“Auralee, since when do you smoke weed? And Damian, did you order $40 worth of pay-per-view?”

“I had the day off, your boy wanted to smoke, so I figured I’d try it out. And since I threw down for the weed, he threw down for the movie marathon.”

“How can he ‘throw down’ when he’s not making any money?”

“It’s not like I can get a job, with the cops looking for me,” Damian pointed out.

Christyn winced, knowing she’d hit a sensitive spot. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ve just had a rough day at work and it’d be nice if you helped me out, like you used to at the restaurant. Maybe clean the house before you decide to veg out and order Australian B-horror flicks from 2005.”

“Hey, Brett Leonard is a great director. Could have done without the whole shocking twist at the end, but calling his movie a B-horror--”

“No offense, Damian,” Christyn cut him off, “but I really don’t care about the quality of the movie.”

“Whoa, Chrissy, careful there,” said Auralee. “Make him get off his ass too much and he might end up losing some weight.”

“Yeah, well, the alternative is me losing my goddamn mind,” she muttered, pushing back the fringe of her hair in frustration.

She drank a couple shots and went straight to bed without waiting for him, but a few minutes later, he came in, quietly at first, sitting on the edge of the bed and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Chrissy, I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’ve been having too much fun here and I forgot to think about making you happy, too.”

“You make me very happy,” she said. “Come here.”

He cuddled up to her in bed and she sighed with contentment, pressing herself into his warmth. Beautiful though it was, the house was poorly insulated, and it got chilly even as the early months of spring arrived. Her favorite thing to do nowadays was lay wrapped up in his arms just like this.

“I’ll help you out from now on. I promise.”

***

“Can you give me all the details you remember from the attack, Ms. Brandywine?”

Christyn had only minutes ago regained consciousness and here she was in Esteban’s tiny office, sitting at his computer chair while a police detective asked her questions.

Her head hurt, and she struggled to recall the events of the evening. “I got to work at 5...then at 7, I was serving a customer a glass of wine. All of the sudden, the customer told me to look out behind me, and I saw in the reflection in the wine glass, there was a guy in all black and a ski mask...with a gun.”

“Then what happened?”

“He grabbed me around the shoulders and put the gun against my head. He told me to open the register, so I did, and then…”

“Yes?”

“Well, he had to let me go so I could open the register. And once I had my hands free, I...I made a lunge for him,” she said as it came back to her.

“What do you remember thinking at that moment?”

“I thought if I could get the gun out of his hands, I could keep him from shooting any innocent people.”

“That was very brave, and very reckless of you, Ms. Brandywine,” said the detective. “Then what happened?”

“I, I don’t know, Officer. I woke up behind the bar. My manager said I was unconscious for forty-five minutes after my attacker hit me in the back of the head with the gun.”

“I see. Can you describe your assailant?”

“Well, like I said, he was wearing a ski mask.”

“Just do your best.”

She racked her brain. “I don’t know, maybe 5’8”, 180 pounds, he had this distinctly wide stance and kept adjusting his crotch.” If that description matched anyone she knew, her nerves were too fried for her to make the connection, and if she’d shared with anyone the approximate layout of the hotel bar, including the fact that she often kept the back door propped open with a brick so that she could slip easily in and out for a smoke break, it didn’t occur to her in the moment, either.

Esteban gave her the rest of the week off, along with all of the next, so she could collect herself and ease her nerves. She waited until the police left to go home; before the interrogation, Esteban had offered her a glass of water, which turned out to be a vodka and water, and the last thing she wanted was to be pulled over and Breathalyzed on her way out. She left through the back, and as she passed the dumpsters, she was assailed once more from the side. She thrashed as her attacker wrapped an arm around her body and clapped a hand over her mouth before she could scream.

“Chrissy, relax! It’s me!” Damian pulled off his ski mask and gave her a dopey grin like he hadn’t just committed a robbery at her workplace.

“Damian, what the fuck! You attacked me? You could’ve given me a concussion! And--is that my gun?”

“Relax! It’s not loaded. Do you think I’m crazy?”

“It was loaded when I left it in the glove box,” said Christyn. “Where did the bullets go?”

“I, uh…”

“Damian, where did the bullets go?”

“You see, here’s the thing. If I got caught, I didn’t want them to think you and I were in cahoots together, so I thought if I made it look like I didn’t like you, you’d be safe for sure, right?” He said this while they were walking to her car, and when they got there, she realized he had emptied the entire magazine into her windshield.

“You’re paying for that.”

She looked up an auto shop that was open until 9 PM and put the address in her GPS.

“I was just trying to contribute,” he said on the way there. “I don’t actually like not working. When you’re not home, I just feel like a bum. I know you said I should clean the house, but I won’t be satisfied just being your stay-at-home trophy boyfriend. I figured if I couldn’t get a job, I might hit a lick and split the money with you. Use my half to take you out somewhere nice…”

“How did you even get to the hotel?”

“Auralee dropped me off. I didn’t tell her what I was doing and she didn’t ask.”

The bill for the windshield came out to $218, which left Damian with exactly twelve bucks left from the robbery. He still wanted to take her out to dinner, so while her car was getting worked on, he walked her to the $6 chicken buffet down the street. She fixed herself a modest plate--well, more like half a plate--of steamed green beans and bread rolls, and barely picked at it before she went digging in her wallet for a tip for the waitress.

“Man, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you’d be this stressed out. I know how that fucks with your appetite,” said Damian, already on his second plate.

“That and I’m a vegetarian. I don’t know why I expect you to remember.”

When they finally arrived home, Christyn took a look around the living room and cracked the smallest of smiles in spite of herself. “Well, at least you cleaned the house.”


	18. SEVENTEEN

**SEVENTEEN**

When Damian came downstairs the next morning, Christyn was on the phone while she made breakfast. “No, no, it’s not a bad time. I actually just came into some time off at my full-time job, so I’d be glad to pick up as many shifts as you need me for in the coming week!” she was saying to someone who must have been a manager at the staffing agency.

Auralee was also on the phone. As Christyn plated eggs, toast, and pancakes made from scratch, she paced the kitchen, pleading, “Sebastian, please, don’t do this to me! And over the phone, no less! You know you’re my favorite.” He guessed she was talking to one of her online feedees; she had mentioned she had one in New York and one in California, and he figured probably a couple others as well.

“Wonderful, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow!” Christyn finished up on the phone before turning to Damian. “The agency is sending me to work at a series of banquets in Beaumont. I’ll be gone for a week, starting tomorrow.”

Damian’s heart sank. “A whole week?”

Just then, Auralee got off the phone, too, and it seemed he was wrong about who she was on the line with: “Goddamit, my best barback just quit on me. You want a job, kid? Chrissy tells me you’re pretty good, and now that we’re living together, I can drive you to work and back.”

Damian looked from Christyn to Auralee. He’d wanted a job, in theory, but there were still complications. “That’s back in the city, right?” he said. “What about my warrants?”

“Don’t worry about it. My dad used to be a cop of pretty high ranking. He has connections and ways of getting around the system,” said Auralee. “I myself am pretty much above the law, along with anyone under my protection. I’ll make sure you get your check cut and the HPD doesn’t touch you. Besides, you’re probably already quite a few pounds removed from resemblance to your mugshot, anyway.”

“The work can be stressful as shit,” said Christyn. “Trust me, you’ll be taking my old job. But this is exactly what you wanted! If you think you can handle it, I say go for it!”

“With you gone for a week, I think I’ll die of loneliness in here if I don’t,” said Damian. “Okay, Auralee, you’ve got yourself a barback!”

She printed him out his onboarding paperwork within the hour. “Fill this out, and be ready tomorrow morning at 8. We start at 9, open at 10, and it’s a long drive.”

The dress code at the bowling alley, Auralee explained, was black on black, and yes, sweatpants would be fine. He showered and got dressed first thing in the morning and was downstairs just in time to meet Auralee. Christyn was already awake and dressed in her full waitstaff uniform, complete with a tie and a black vest that hugged her curves and pushed her tits up in a way that really made him wish they had more time before work--but at least now he had a workplace to go to!

She handed him a plastic container before she left and said, “Here, I made you some breakfast tacos for the road. Don’t worry, no onions.”

“Thanks.” That was awfully nice of her, but he couldn’t help but worry that she was still mad at him. Why else would she decide to leave town for a week?

Auralee drove a boxy, brown secondhand SUV that was as comically large as Christyn’s Fiat was comically small, and she was an awful driver. Back when Damian had a car, he liked to drive fast, but he was never a jerk on the road, at least, not when he was sober. Auralee weaved in and out of traffic, cutting people off with only inches to spare, all the while honking and swearing as if the other people were the ones at fault.

At one point, they were sitting in traffic behind a four-car pile-up, and Damian finally felt brave enough to eat breakfast, knowing they’d be at a standstill for a while. The stress from the nerve-wracking drive so far combined with the presence of more cops at the scene of the accident than he was comfortable with only intensified his appetite, and he crushed all three tacos Christyn had sent him off with in under a minute each.

“Boy, that Chrissy sure knows how to pick ‘em,” said Auralee. “If I’m allowed to say so, you do have quite an impressive appetite. And she’s shaping up to be a better feeder than I imagined; it was probably a smart idea of hers to leave town for a week. Without her around to stuff you on the daily, your body might get tricked into starvation mode, and when she comes back and picks up where she left off, you’ll put the weight on faster than ever.”

“I don’t think that’s why she left,” said Damian. “She’s probably still mad that I hit a lick on her at the hotel.”

“You...licked her?” said Auralee with a confused expression. 

“Christyn didn’t tell you? I committed a robbery in the bar. I was just trying to help out with funds,” he admitted.

“Hit a lick...now, that’s another one I haven’t heard before. Back in my day you ‘knocked over’ the hotel bar.”

They arrived with only a minute to spare, but Auralee was the manager, so Damian figured she could’ve been late if she wanted to be. The bowling alley was huge inside, with 24 lanes from wall to wall lit in a harsh fluorescent. The restaurant area, however, was tiny in comparison. There were eight bar seats in total and eight tables: four high-tops and four low four-tops. The front end of the kitchen was accessible behind the bar through either side, with a wall separating them in the middle. “We don’t have very many people sit in the restaurant itself,” explained Auralee. “Most of them just take their drinks and go back to the lanes. I don’t even have these tables numbered.” She put him in the system via the POS behind the bar and gave him a 4-digit access code so he could clock in. “And of course Zeke isn’t here yet...looks like you and me will have to set up the kitchen!”

She gave him a brief tour while they set the prep station up with a cutting board, turned on the fryers, the flat-top stove, and the pizza oven. “Chrissy used to help out in the kitchen, too. She’s an inspired cook, as I’m sure you know.”

There were eighteen beer taps, all connected to lines that ran through the ceiling and into the far back walk-in, where the kegs sat on a top and bottom shelf, which must have been where Christyn had spent days shackled after stealing one of Auralee’s boyfriends. The lines attached to the kegs were labeled with numbers that corresponded to their position in the bar. There was a separate walk-in for food in the back kitchen, by the pizza assembly station. As Auralee led him around, he noticed that for some reason, there was a step built into the floor behind the bar right under the taps, and that the only hand-wash sink was in the back of the kitchen next to the ice machine, with no sinks at all behind the bar or in the front kitchen. Five minutes before open, she said, “Alright, now it’s time for my breakfast,” and poured herself a plastic cup of red wine. “Can’t be hungover if you’re still drunk, right?”

Zeke, the cook, showed up right at 10. He was a tall, skinny Black guy in a baggy button-up with the sleeves rolled up halfway and his cap on backwards. “You’re late,” said Auralee.

“You’re welcome! Now y’all don’t have to pay me for an hour of labor,” said Zeke. “What’s this, you finally hire another cook so I don’t have to be alone back there?”

“Actually, I’m training as a barback,” said Damian.

“Training? Don’t be modest, Damian, you’re already trained. Chrissy recommends you highly and I don’t see why I shouldn’t throw you in the mix off the bat, especially with how short-staffed we’ve been. I’ve been having to use my assistant lead bartender as a barback two shifts a week for the last month, even with Sebastian working.”

“Wait, you know Chrissy?” said Zeke. “That’s what’s up!” He went in for a high-five and Damian met him halfway. “That was my best friend back when she worked here...before she left to go work at Common Table with my sister. So how you know Chrissy?”

“We met at my old restaurant job, and I guess now I’m dating her.”

“In that case, you better do right by that girl, you hear?” said Zeke, and Damian decided to keep it to himself that he’d hit a lick at her job.

The work itself was easy. People trickled into the bar and mostly ordered food, then a few draft beers and occasionally a mixed drink. Damian spent most of the first shift running food, the biggest obstacle being finding where it was supposed to go, as Auralee’s tickets all had obscure names like Guy with a Green Shirt or Soccer Mom Looking Chick or Crackhead Mikey. Other than that, he had a lot of downtime and spent much of it checking his phone. After seeing some of the feedee and feeder blogs Christyn had come across in her ‘research,’ he’d decided to start one of his own, just to document his progress, as well as chat about his experiences with other like-minded folks while still having anonymity. He was pleased to see that his selfie in the mirror (with his head cropped out of the frame, of course), in Christyn’s hoodie, which wouldn’t even close anymore, had gotten 50 likes. He had a few questions in his inbox from anonymous senders, too, and one from someone using the screen name ColderEveryWinter, who said she (or at least, he assumed it was a she) liked his blog and that she was a feedist working in the bar industry, too, although a look through her blog gave away nothing about her sexual life. Mostly, she reposted articles about impending climate change and the corruption of the 1%. He answered when he got a moment to spare.

After a short lunch rush, Auralee told Zeke, “Why don’t you make us all a snack?”

“Sure, what you want, boss?”

“I don’t know, maybe some cheese sticks?”

A few minutes later, Zeke placed a plate of four of the biggest cheese sticks Damian had ever seen on the corner of the bar. Auralee nudged it towards Damian and said, “Try one. I know you haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Damian wasn’t sure what was in the cheese sticks that made them so filling and heavy--or maybe it was just that each one was about as thick around as Auralee’s wrist, if not damn near. He barely managed to get through a quarter of one before he gave up. It sat like a rock at the pit of his stomach while his breathing took a labored pace. He knew it was crazy, but he would have sworn he could actually feel his arteries protesting.

“They’re a little decadent, I’ll admit,” said Auralee. Boy, what an understatement. He wondered if Auralee had simply been replacing most of her food intake with alcohol for so long that she had forgotten how food worked, how it was supposed to take into account well-coupled flavors and balance, instead of being a mess of as much grease and carbs as she could put together on one plate. In any case, Christyn had a good reason for banning Auralee from the kitchen at home. If Auralee were to do the cooking, they’d all be having heart attacks in a month. “I’ve had a few new hires actually get sick the first few times after eating here. You get used to it.” She had a bite of one cheese stick herself, and Zeke refused to even touch the stuff. “Anyway, be sure to get a good meal in tonight, and for breakfast tomorrow. Trust me, you’ll need it for stamina.”

“Today was easy enough,” said Damian.

“Tomorrow morning, though, I’ll be at my other job. It’ll just be you, another new guy, and Sabine.”

There was much less traffic on their way back home that night, and, without anyone to yell at on the road, Auralee turned up the radio. She had it tuned to the rock station, and as she drove, she began to sing along. Her voice was beautiful, strong and on-pitch, and much better than anything he was used to hearing.

“Holy shit, Auralee, you got some pipes!” he said. “You ever thought about being a singer?”

“Thanks, Damian! I...I have given it some thought...but I don’t play any instruments, so I don’t feel very musically talented.”

“You’re talented as fuck! You’re a natural!”

“You’re too sweet for your own good, kid.”

In the morning, Auralee dropped Damian off at the bowling alley and drove off to the downtown farmer’s market, where she sold pies as a side-hustle. A few minutes later, every car alarm in the parking lot went off, and then, Sabine Mathison walked in, placing a motorcycle helmet on the corner of the bar.

He had seen her name on the schedule, listed today and a few other days as a bartender, and as a barback on weekend nights with Auralee bartending and managing. This must be the assistant lead Auralee had mentioned. Until she arrived, he didn’t know what to expect. He had never met another Sabine, and didn’t know until he saw her whether she’d be a guy or girl. The first thing Damian noticed about her was that she was short--very short. He understood now why there was a step built into the floor behind the bar; without it, this girl would barely be able to reach the beer taps. She had black hair that fought to escape the rubber band that secured her stubby ponytail, and wore thick-rimmed, rectangular glasses. She had narrow shoulders, shapely hips, and an hourglass waist, and wore a lot of black eyeliner, but no lipstick. She introduced herself with a curt handshake, and although she told him it was “a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she did not smile.

“So you’re one of the new barbacks?”

“Yeah, I’m Damian, it’s nice to--”

“Auralee tells me you’re experienced. I certainly hope she’s right, because we have a full house of birthday and office parties booked today, and Zeke comes in whenever he wants to come in, so you might have to do my job and yours while I jump in the kitchen in his stead. Now, we’re a little early. I’m sure Auralee gave you the tour, but since we have time, let’s take a look around in case she missed anything.”

She led the way past the front kitchen and back into the prep kitchen. “Right here, where I’m standing,” she said, standing next to the dishwasher, “this here is a blind spot to the cameras. Here’s another one.” She moved to the back of the prep kitchen, right inside the back doorway. “And all down the hall to the beer cooler. Now, did Auralee show you how to get out of the walk in in case you get stuck?”

“Get stuck?” he repeated, horrified.

“The door handle is broken on the inside, so if you’re inside and someone closes the door, you’re locked in. That’s why we keep this little metal rod up there,” she explained, leading him inside and pointing to a pipe that ran above the door. “It’s right on top of the pipe. You take the rod and jam it in that hole in the door and then you’re sprung. But I guess if it’s me, I’m double fucked, because I can’t reach.”

She showed him a few more things, like the dry storage area behind the lanes where he might find extra Styrofoam cups and to-go boxes if they weren’t stocked in the bar, and how to operate the dishwasher, because apparently they didn’t have a guy for that, they all just took turns. “Now, the machine’s for glassware only. When we do use plates and silver, like for special reservations, we wash them by hand, but we almost always just use the paper boats and plastic forks. Got it?”

He nodded.

Handling opening wasn’t too hard. He was more or less familiar with how to ring things in on the computer, so as the first of the customers started to trickle in, he fell into a comfortable rhythm on the register while Sabine mixed drinks and made food. Business was steady, but not overwhelmingly busy.

At around noon, the other barback on the schedule came in.

His name was Will and he was a tall, skinny string-bean kind of guy, probably about Damian’s own age, with short dark hair and a meek handshake. They exchanged words briefly. He was new, too, it was his first day. He’d put on his application that he’d been a barback before, but he’d lied.

“Oh, it’s easy,” said Damian. “All you have to do is keep the bar stocked, change out the kegs when they get empty, and do whatever the bartender says she needs you to do, then clean up after the end of the shift. If you need me to, I can show you the ropes, but you’ll probably be fine.”

About that time, Zeke finally showed up, throwing his bag on the corner of the bar and clapping Damian on the back. “What’s up, my dude? Where Beans at?”

“What?”

“Sabine. She’s a girl that works here.”

Sabine emerged from the kitchen holding a spatula and shaking her head. “Look who decided to show up for work.”

“You’re alright, cooking ain’t that hard.” He took the spatula from her, clocked in and jumped on his station.

“Damian, go ahead and take a lunch break now, because this is about the slowest we’re gonna get all shift,” said Sabine, “but be back in 30 minutes because that’s when the biggest parties come in and I’m gonna need all hands on deck.”

Damian clocked out and went to the gas station across the street for a bag of chips, a pack of mini donuts, and his favorite mid-day treat of sweet tea with two creamers. He took his full 30 minutes outside by the pumps to enjoy the fresh air, guessing he wouldn’t have much downtime when he walked back into work.

He had no idea what would be in store for him when he returned.

The bowling alley was packed to the brim with people. There were now three servers on the floor, two on the lanes and one for the restaurant area, and they were all weeded. The expo window was full of fried appetizers losing heat by the second, and Sabine was screaming her lungs out at Will behind the bar.

“HOW THE FUCK AM I ALREADY OUT OF MARTINI GLASSES? You’re supposed to bring them back to the dish pit when they’re empty, not just let them sit on tables! I have food that needs expo and I already told you about the kegs five minutes ago!”

“Which kegs need to be changed? Just give me the numbers,” said Damian as he clocked back in.

“Oh, thank God you’re back. 3, 5, and 12.”

“On it. Hey Will, do you want to jump on either expo or glassware?”

Damian made his way to the back and changed the first two kegs in a personal record time. He hadn’t done this in a long while, but he still remembered how to turn off the hose, take it out, and put it into the new keg just the way Christyn had taught him. The kegs were heavy, but they were nothing he couldn’t handle, and he actually felt stronger than he had been back at the Capital. Maybe it had something to do with getting used to carrying an extra 40 pounds in body weight.

As he got started on the third keg, he realized that instead of jumping on the hot line, Will had followed him to the far back walk-in, where he was standing in the doorway looking like he had never seen a keg of beer before, let alone handled one. “Will you teach me how to do that?” he asked.

“Sure, here, just watch me.” He walked Will through the steps as he worked. “Got it?”

“I think so.”

“Okay, good. Now let’s go, Sabine needs hands on the line.”

“What does that mean?”

“She needs us to bring food out to the lanes.”

Damian took the lead, pleased to see that Sabine’s tickets had lane numbers on them, making it easy for him. He coached Will through the process of running food before Sabine yelled at no one in particular, “WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY MARTINI GLASSES?”

“Give me a minute, I got you. Will, lock in on expo.”

Damian made a quick sweep of the place, ran a rack of glasses through the machine, and had them all polished in the next few minutes. He thought he was doing pretty good for his first busy day here, until Sabine snapped, “Damian, I need ten kamikaze shots on lane 14, pronto!"

Well, fuck.

He looked up the recipe on his phone as quickly as he could, relieved to see it was simple, with only three ingredients. He figured he could make five at a time in one shaker, and had made his way to the well to start filling one with ice, but then Sabine took it out of his hands and knocked him out of the way. “Jesus Christ, if you can’t keep pace then just tell me!” she barked, and a part of him started to wonder if he’d be better at keeping up if he hadn’t decided to gain a bunch of weight on purpose.

But then he watched as Sabine poured vodka, triple sec, and lime juice into two shakers at once, and he realized, no normal person could keep up with her. He’d once seen Christyn pour five drinks in under a minute. Sabine had ten poured in about half that time. The girl was some kind of mutant.

“Well, don’t just watch me!” she snapped. “I don’t tip you out to stand around with your thumb in your ass!”

“Yes, Sergeant,” he answered defiantly. She looked like she wanted to smack him in the face. He took the tray out to lane 14 before she could do it.

The rush remained in full swing all shift. Damian kept himself busy to avoid Sabine’s frustrated bursts of wrath, to which, for some reason, Zeke seemed to be the only exception. On his way in and out of the dish pit, Damian would see Sabine approach Zeke gently, pull a ticket, and mutter, “I need this on the fly,” or Zeke emerge from his station to rub her shoulders behind the bar between onslaughts of customers.

It wasn’t until 4 PM that the line in front of the register finally died. Damian was making a batch of Jello shots while Will cleaned up in the lanes when Sabine handed him some money rolled up. “Auralee should be here in a minute. Not bad today,” she said, ran out of the bar to tip out Will, and dipped out the side of the building.

When Auralee arrived, she was walking unsteadily and smelled like liquor. “Sorry I’m late!” she said, her voice a slow drawl. “One of my online feedees is in town visiting family, and I had leftover pie from the farmer’s market, so we decided to meet up and make a detour back to the house.”

“It’s no problem, I was only alone here for a few minutes.”

Just then, a tall, slim blonde woman clothed in a gray suit with her hair in a bun walked into the bar. “Auralee, the folks at lane 8 said their fried green beans are too spicy.”

“Shit, don’t look at me, I just got here,” said Auralee. “Oh, excuse me, where are my manners? Mom, this is Damian, my new barback. Damian, this is my mother, Virtue Kingston, the owner of the establishment.”

Virtue extended her hand to shake, but her grip was slack and after she broke away he felt awkward for squeezing. She didn't say a word to him, instead looking at Auralee: “I thought we just hired a barback.”

“I can’t run just one barback on every shift. I need at least two, sometimes both at once.”

“One? What happened to Sebastian?”

“His mom got sick so he left with an immediate notice so he could take care of her.”

“Oh. Tragic,” said Virtue, but the sentiment didn’t reach her eyes. “Auralee, do you think you could have a talk with your staff about looking presentable for work?” She looked pointedly at Damian.

“What’s wrong with him, Mother?”

“I think dress slacks should be the standard for front of the house staff.”

“I already told him the sweatpants were fine. Besides, you didn’t say anything to Sabine when she came in in leather pants.”

“Sabine didn’t look sloppy.”

“I just washed these last night!” Damian protested. And who was she to call him ‘sloppy,’ anyway, when Auralee was clearly drunk?

“I guess you are the bar manager,” said Virtue, and walked off rolling her eyes and sighing.

The second shift was slow after a hectic morning. Damian spent most of it cleaning up the last shift’s mess behind the bar while Will did the same out in the lanes. At about five, Zeke left and another cook, Girard, took his place. Girard didn’t talk much, just made tickets as they were rung in and listened to Tejano music on a set of speakers in the back kitchen while he ran the dishwasher. By seven, Virtue returned to the bar to tell Auralee, “Labor is too high for profits at the moment; I need you to send one of your barbacks home.” She didn’t stick around, much to Damian’s relief.

“Guess it’ll have to be the other guy, since I’m your ride,” Auralee said to Damian. “What’s his name again?”

“It’s Will. Didn’t you hire him?”

“My mother hired him. How did he do this morning?”

“Pretty good,” Damian lied.

“Good. Mom has a bad habit of hiring people who are incompetent, as long as she likes what she sees. She has a lot of bias against plus-sized people and hires me a lot of these skinny little kids who can barely lift a beer pitcher, nevermind a keg.”

“I imagine that must have been hard for you, growing up.”

Auralee must not have been in the mood to talk about her childhood, because she made no comment, instead walking to the doorway between the kitchen and the lanes. “Hey Will!”

“Yes?” He ran up to the doorway to meet her, seeming to look up at her even though they were the same height. “What’s your name?”

“Auralee. I’m the bar manager. Now, I bet you’ve been working hard all morning; you can go ahead and take off now. Me and Damian have got it from here.”

Will seemed disappointed to be leaving, and his eyes lingered on Auralee the whole while he was getting his stuff and working his way out. Damian fought back a smile, remembering the days when he was fresh in the industry with a crush on his bar manager.

On the drive home, Auralee said to him, “I don’t like when my mom interferes on the restaurant side.”

Said, “I know what I’m doing. I do it well, and I do it all for 2.13.”

Said, “Years back, I had a salary, but that meant I couldn’t keep tips as a manager. Anything I made on a credit card was supposed to be redistributed to the rest of the staff, but instead, I caught her skimming. So I voluntarily took a paycut so I could make tips and distribute them properly to the staff.”

Said, “Have you eaten dinner?”

He hadn’t, but he didn’t want to make her stop.

When they got home he found the living room a mess. Not only had she and her afternoon date left the pie tin on the floor along with a spattering of crumbs, but they had somehow managed to flip the coffee table over and get whipped cream on the ceiling.

The next day, he was a double again, opening with Sabine, closing with Auralee. Although he kept up close enough with Sabine, the end of the first shift found him winded and starving. Zeke, who got off at the same time he did, winced when he caught sight of him slumped over the bar cooler with fatigue. “Hey, you don’t look so good, little bro,” he said. “I’m finna go get some food that doesn’t taste like you’re actively having a heart attack. Want to come with? You look like you could use a little pick-me-up.”

Zeke drove a red sedan that was in dire need of a paint job, but clean inside and in good working condition. He took them to this Italian restaurant, where they were greeted and sat down at a table by a very busty blonde waitress with the first two buttons of her white dress shirt undone. “Who’s your friend, Zeke?” she asked.

“You two know each other?” said Damian.

“In a biblical sense,” said the blonde.

Zeke rolled his eyes. “I forget, subtlety ain’t one of your strong suits, Maize. This Damian, by the way. He work at the bowling alley. Damian, this Maizy.”

It took him a while to get that ‘biblical’ comment, but then he remembered that in the Bible, ‘knew’ meant ‘fucked.’

“So you’re Zeke’s girlfriend?”

“I don’t know if that’d be the right word,” said Maizy. “My best friend Betty just knows him from law school, and she and I have known each other since diapers and we share everything.”

Damian looked at Zeke, stunned. “You’re in law school?”

“Yeah, trying not to brag about it.”

“And what do you mean, share?” he asked the waitress.

“Typical, Maize, just typical. Running your mouth at tables and letting the guests get thirsty.” Another waitress approached the table and set a beer down in front of Zeke. She was a tall, Hispanic girl with long, wavy black hair. “It’s been too long, Ezekiel. We’ve been starting to get lonely over here.” She squeezed his shoulder before turning her attention to Damian. “For those of us here for the first time, welcome! My name is Beatriz, but you can call me Betty, and myself and Maizy will be at your service today. Now what can I get you to drink, mijo?”

For a moment, Damian couldn’t speak. Was he to understand that Zeke was fucking both of these fine waitresses, and they were perfectly content to share him? And he thought he had been living the life. Eventually he found the words to order himself an iced tea, two creamers.

“And let’s go ahead and get some food for the table, too, my brother looked like he was finna faint at work. Bring us a sampler, if ya would?” said Zeke.

The food was delicious. Between the two of them, they managed to clear a tray of cheese sticks, stuffed mushrooms, tomato caprese bites, and Italian spiced wings, along with two baskets of garlic bread. The cheese sticks in particular were a lot better than the ones at the bowling alley, where the breading was too crumbly and soaked up way too much grease. Damian was still a little hungry, so he ordered a side salad with extra dressing. He didn’t used to think he was a salad guy, but Christyn had gotten him into it.

“Is it good, mijo?” asked Betty, the next time the waitresses came to check on them. “It looks like you’re enjoying it.” She turned to Zeke and said, “Your friend is quite a little snack, isn’t that what they say?”

“Looks more like a whole meal to me,” said Maizy. “Meat, rolls, thighs, sides, and cake, mmh!”

“Girls, lay off, he got a whole woman!” said Zeke.

“Just one?” said Betty.

“It’s better with two,” said Maizy.

“Or three. Ezekiel, have you spoke to Doloriz from Consumer Law?”

“Or Sabine, from your job? When is she coming back to play?”

Damian choked on his tea. Zeke had four women? How the hell did he do it?

It wasn’t surprising to learn that one of them was Sabine, though. Those two had seemed affectionate at the bowling alley.

The waitresses gave them a half-off discount when they dropped the check and Betty asked Zeke, “When do you get off next?”

“That depends on y’all,” he joked, before answering seriously, “I’m working Saturday but only ‘til five, and off Sunday all day.”

On Saturday, Auralee was tied up in meetings with food vendors all afternoon, so it was Sabine behind the bar again, and Damian made the mistake of pulling out a book to read on the well during his downtime. It was an annotated copy of The 120 Days of Sodom that he’d found in the glove box of Auralee’s car. She had certain pages marked with sticky notes, which all contained passages where a character was coaxed to eat something. It was kind of sexy, but he didn’t get very far into it before Sabine confiscated it from him.

“The fuck do I tip you out for?” she snapped.

“There’s nothing to do!”

“You don’t see me standing around.” Indeed, before she came to confront him, she had been mixing up a batch of strawberry daiquiri for the frozen drink machine, but she hadn’t looked like she had needed any help. “You can have your book back at the end of the shift. Why don’t you just go in the back and see what Zeke needs help with?”

Zeke was ‘blanching’ fries, as he called it. “We pre-cook them until they’re halfway done, then put ‘em in bags and throw ‘em in the freezer, and cook ‘em the rest of the way when someone orders ‘em.”

“Do we cut the potatoes here?”

“Yeah, in fact, want to give it a try?”

Zeke led the way back into the prep kitchen and hauled a sack of potatoes out of the walk-in, struggling a bit. Damian took it out of his hands to help him out, set it on the prep table, and took out a potato. “Now what?”

Mounted on the wall was a contraption that consisted of a metal arm and a box-shaped blade. Zeke motioned toward it and Damian quickly figured it out, placing the potato on top of the box-looking thing and pulling the crank down to push it through the criss-crossing blade. “Not bad, got it in one whack! Usually takes me two or three,” said Zeke, and Damian felt a surge of pride knowing the past few months’ added weight had come with added strength. “You’re supposed to put a bucket underneath, though,” he remarked, gesturing to the mess of raw fries now scattered on the floor.

“Shit, sorry. I’ll get a broom.”

“Nah, just kick ‘em under the three compartment sink. We’ll let the closer deal with it.”

Damian didn’t feel right about doing something so unsanitary, but in the end, he did as Zeke said, thinking maybe Zeke had beef with whoever was working at night. For the rest of the shift, he helped Zeke blanch, portion, and bag the fries. It was slow all shift, but they found ways to amuse themselves, like throwing ice cubes onto the grill or swordfighting with plastic-wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups, until Auralee came back from her meetings to give Damian a ride home. She had to go right back to work so Sabine could take the night off, and it wasn’t until she was two hours gone that he remembered neither of them had gone to the store.

He checked the fridge--yep, nothing but vodka. With a groan, he collapsed on the couch, pulled out his phone, and tried to think of what to order for delivery. He didn’t have any money left on his prepaid card, and he hadn’t thought to have Auralee stop somewhere on the way home so he could load it, so he’d have to call Christyn and get her credentials. He’d pay her back out of his cash tips when she got back from Beaumont…

Then, he had a better idea.

He logged onto his blog and posted a short vent: Broke, gf out of town, no food in the house. He made an account on one of those third-party money-sending apps, and to his relief, was able to connect his prepaid card. Then, he waited.

Within the hour, he got a message from someone with the screen name, Mistress-B.

Mistress-B: Hey big boy. If I buy you a pizza can I watch you eat it over video chat?

He considered the offer for a moment. It felt a little weird doing feedist stuff with someone other than Christyn...but it wasn’t cheating unless they actually had sex, right? Besides, it wasn’t too much different from posting a picture or a video, was it? So, he wrote back.

SpaceCityFeedee2001: Sure any requests?

Mistress-B: Order a large, your choice of toppings. Just tell me where to send the $

He looked up pizza places and found a place that was having a special on a large 2-topping with a 2-liter of soda for $12.99. He gave her his handle on the money app and told her the pizza was $25. His phone dinged as the cash hit his account, and he placed the order online for a large pepperoni and black olive pizza with root beer.

“Hope you and your family enjoy!” said the driver when she dropped off his order. After tipping her, he brought the box and the soda into the living room, where he set it all down on the coffee table. He opened up a video chat with Mistress-B and focused the camera on the spread before him once she answered.

“Holy shit, look at this thing, it’s huge!” he said, thinking they should have called it an extra large.

“For twenty-five bucks, I hope so,” she replied. “Well, don’t keep me waiting.” Her voice was a little distorted over the call, but he could still make her out pretty clearly.

“Alright give me a sec.” He fetched a chair from the kitchen and placed it on the other side of the coffee table, propping his phone up against the back so he could sit on the couch with his face out of the frame. Mistress-B seemed to have the same idea; she was sitting in her computer chair with her webcam angled downward so that she was visible only from the neck down. To his relief, she was fully clothed, wearing a black button down and black pants that reminded him of a server uniform. She probably was one; foodservice was a great profession if you liked watching people eat.

He took the first slice out of the box and dug in. The pizza was not great; the crust was too hard and there was way too much cheese, threatening to ooze and drip over the edges, but right now he’d take what he could get for free.

“Yes, keep eating,” said Mistress-B as he moved onto his second and third slices. “You like that, don’t you? You like shoving all that grease and all those carbs down your throat, being lazy and knowing that soon all those calories are turning into pounds of extra fat on your body. Keep going. I want to see you get stuffed.”

“Oh my God,” he moaned between bites. She was good at dirty talk and he was getting hard.

About halfway through the fourth slice, he reached that pleasant level of fullness that made him want a good fuck and a long nap. Breathing was now taking some effort and his stomach had rounded out slightly; it wasn’t as dramatic a change like back when he was thinner and stuffed, but it made his tight shirt ride up almost an inch. He leaned back in his seat and massaged his full gut to put on a show for his benefactor. “Fuck, I’m so full,” he said. 

But it looked like she was not yet impressed.

“How do you expect to get to 230 pounds if you stop eating when you’re full?” she teased. “Come on, no pain, no gain, as they say.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said, and finished the fourth slice.

By the end of the fifth slice--and they were big slices--he was in genuine discomfort, which had never happened to him. He liked to take himself right to the threshold, but now he was past that point and he didn’t like it at all. His stomach ached sharply with indigestion from all that damn cheese, and he had an acid taste in the back of his throat, like things were about to start coming back up. Trying to wash it all down with soda only seemed to make things worse. “Oof...it’s starting to hurt,” he said. To his surprise, she started to squirm in her seat and rub herself through her pants.

“Good, I want it to hurt you.”

Ding.

By the time he got the sixth slice down, he felt like absolute dog crap. Bent double on the couch near tears of pain, he said, “I really can’t do it.”

“Is that all you’ve got? Pathetic."

Ding.

“Come on, finish it. I want to see you wreck your body.”

Her dirty talk had started to cross into a weird territory for him. He’d never been humiliated in the context of this kink before, and he could already tell it wasn’t going to be his thing. It didn’t help either that he was on the verge of throwing up. “Girl, the only thing I’m about to wreck is the plumbing if you make me keep going.”

Shaking slightly, he leaned forward to check his phone and see what all the notifications were about, and found that more cash had hit his account in increments of five dollars at a time. “Why are you still paying me?”

“Well shit, you should have told me if you were willing to let me say all this mean stuff to you for free!” she said. “Tell you what, though, I’ll pay you forty if you can finish the pizza.”

He really didn’t think he could...but an extra forty bucks did sound nice. “Just let me take a little breather. Five minutes.”

“You’re boring me.” She picked up a book and started to read, and he couldn’t help but notice it had the same cover as the one he’d forgotten to get back from Sabine this afternoon.

“BEANS? THE ‘B’ STANDS FOR BEANS?” he blurted.

“FUCK!” she screamed. “Who the fuck…? Oh my God. Damian? From work?” She angled the camera toward her face and pointed straight into the lens. “Listen, you breathe a word about this to Zeke and I’ll punch you so hard it’ll be Tuesday!”

She hung up abruptly.

Despite her threat making no sense, he thought it would be best to heed it.

The moment he tried to stand up, his worst fears came to pass and his gag reflex reacted violently. Helpless, he ran to the kitchen to puke in the sink.

Auralee came home to find him on the couch, eyes still watery as he rested off the evening’s ordeal. “Aww, what happened to you?” she asked, but he had a feeling she guessed as she glanced at the pizza box. He explained everything, but left Sabine’s name out of it at the very end. “Well that’s no good. I can’t think of anything more counterproductive than making yourself sick,” she said. “Maybe you ought to get yourself on that capacity training regimen I told you about. Start out with a liter of water and slowly work your way up to two. I could help you,” she offered.

Having some trouble following what she was saying in his current state, but not liking the overall sound of it, he shook his head. “Chrissy said something about water toxicity,” he said. Christyn would’ve never let this happen to him...she always took such good care of him.

“So you’re gonna go with Chrissy on this one?” said Auralee. “I know you think she’s your perfectly infallible chubby-chasing goddess, but she’s just as much a novice at this as you are, and just so you know, the only thing she really knows how to chase is a check. Do you want to know why she left the bowling alley? Not because of all the nastiness between us over Roger Simmons, not over what happened to JD, but because another restaurant manager came along and promised her more money. She’ll play along in the feeder role for now, but what do you think she’ll do if you two’s little project becomes too expensive for her liking?”

“Whatever you’re trying to do, it won't work. Now can you leave me the fuck alone, Auralee!”

“Relax, dude, I was just testing you. You passed. That Chrissy is a lucky woman. Also.” She guided his hand to the upper part of his belly where it still hurt the most. “Small, firm, clockwise circles.” She ruffled his hair and left him in peace, but it still took him another couple of hours to pass out, though her advice did help him out a little. Aching from both the lingering nausea and a renewed sense of Christyn’s absence, he wished tomorrow would come already so she’d be back in town.

***

“So you’re into the whole feeder thing, too, huh?” Damian asked Sabine the next day while they got the bar ready for the guests to arrive. They had a full house booked, so at the height of the rush, they’d be fully staffed with Sabine on the well, Auralee on the register, Damian on the expo window, and Will restocking the bar, but for now, Auralee was in the back doing inventory, and Will didn’t come in until noon, which meant they could talk in private about the previous night.

“Oh, I’m not nearly that complex,” said Sabine. “More of your garden-variety sadist, really. Usually I’ll find guys on the Internet willing to endure a little pain and I’ll pay ‘em to flagellate themselves, or maybe burn themselves with hot wax. It’s just how I blow off steam after work, though, I wouldn’t do any of that stuff to someone if I was actually dating them. I think it’s better doing it online anyway; if I have them self-administering the pain, I don’t have to worry about personally dealing too much damage. Like, if you hurt yourself, that’s on you, buddy, I didn’t force you to go that hard.”

“Flagellate?”

“It means whip.” She paused while setting up the well to pull 120 Days out of her bag on the counter and hand it back to him. “Here’s your book back, by the way.”

“Thanks, it’s Auralee’s.”

“And hey, listen--I probably won’t get too many server tickets early in the shift, so let me know if you need any help on expo, if you’re still feeling queasy from last night.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be fine.”

Will and Auralee had left a mess the previous night, and Damian couldn’t help but resent them a little as he wiped what looked like ranch dressing off the counter in the server station. “So Zeke--?”

“It’s not a big deal. We’ve hooked up a couple times...I think I’d die of shame if he knew I called myself ‘Mistress’ on the internet, though.”

“What’s so bad about--? Oh, cause he’s Black,” Damian realized a moment too late. “Chrissy doesn’t know about my blog, neither. It’s not that I’m hiding it from her, it just hasn’t come up and she’s been out of town.”

“Chrissy, that’s your feeder girlfriend’s name?” said Sabine. “For some reason, after I found out you were a feedee, I thought you were with Auralee. You said your girlfriend was out of town, but don’t you guys live in Richmond? So she technically was out of town, since she was here.”

“Technically. But Hell no. Auralee’s--”

“She’s too much, I know. Especially when she’s drunk.”

“Hey, where are you from?” He’d been meaning to ask her for a while now; she had a thick southern accent but it didn’t quite sound Texan, but he’d never had time to ask.

“Virginia. My family moved here when my dad switched jobs from textiles to oil and gas.”

It was easier talking to Sabine now that they’d seen the most secret sides of one another. The conversation continued on until the bowling alley opened, and she made good on her promise to show him a little mercy.

But what wrath she spared Damian that day, Will received instead. From the moment he walked in, it was, “YOU’RE LATE! Don’t bother clocking in, Auralee will fix your hours later, just get me a damn rack of rocks glasses restocked on the double!” and, “That table in the restaurant got up and left five minutes ago! Why the FUCK is it still dirty?” and, “Could you be going any fucking slower? God, it’s like trying to give directions to a newborn!”

Damian had the easiest job, just dropping off food at tables, and he usually had the window cleared for minutes at a time and ended up jumping in to pick up the slack for Will, who wasn’t doing a bad job, he was just not apparently up to Sabine’s standard. On the shifts they worked together, Damian had tried his best to help Will learn his way around this job, and he was definitely improving, but Damian was so much quicker at everything and blew him out of the water when it came to heavy lifting. He felt a little guilty for making him look bad, but he couldn’t help it that he was more experienced.

With the workload moving faster, Sabine calmed down a little, until she sent Will into the back to fetch her a bucket of ranch dressing when the server station started to run low on pre-portioned cups of the stuff. On his way back up to the bar, he slipped in some spilled beer and landed on his back with the wind knocked out of him, absolutely covered in ranch, and that’s when Sabine lost it.

“THAT’S WHY YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO COME TO WORK IN NON SLIP SHOES, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” she screeched, dealing him a kick to the side while he was still down.

Damian liked Sabine, he really did. But right now she was being completely unreasonable, and he felt compelled to do something about it. He knew he’d be playing a dangerous game: unlike Christyn, who tipped out a percentage of sales, and Auralee, who tipped out a percentage of tips, Sabine tipped out based on performance, which meant that if you weren’t pulling your weight or if she decided you were out of line, you were screwed for the shift. Nevertheless, as she moved to make another attack on the other barback, Damian said, “I think someone needs a time-out,” and scooped her right up, bridal-style. She fought him tooth and nail, flailing and thrashing, and even knocked him in the skull with her fist, but he still managed to contain her until he could set her down on top of the bar-top.

Once she scrambled into an upright position with her little legs dangling high above ground level, her angry demeanor shifted into one of terror. “How the fuck am I supposed to get down?” she said between quickened breaths.

“Give it time, Beans. You need to cool down.”

About thirty minutes later, he finally helped her down. As his shift ended, she came up to him. There was murder in her eyes, but she still handed him a fat $150, the highest tipout he had ever recieved. “You’ve got balls, dude. Just don’t do it again.”

On the drive home with Auralee, a text came in from Christyn:

On the bus back now. I’ll be home at 8. I know it’s late, but save your appetite ;)

He squirmed in his seat with anticipation of whatever she had planned for him.

It wasn’t like he would have time to eat, anyway. In only three hours, he had so much work to do. “Hey, Auralee? Can we stop at the store? I need to pick up some things. There’s literally no food in the house, and I probably need some drain cleaner for the kitchen sink. Oh, and something to clean the pie off the living room ceiling...and I want a bottle of wine! You’ll have to pay for that, but I can just hand you the cash.”

Auralee smiled and made a left turn. “That Chrissy doesn’t know how lucky she is.”


	19. EIGHTEEN

**EIGHTEEN**

Christyn arrived early to the office of ABC Hospitality, from which a bus would take about 50 servers and bartenders to Lamar University and back, or drop them off at their hotel if they were scheduled to work for more than one day. The bus was boarded alphabetically, making her seatmates with L’vonte Brown, which was a relief. After their potato soup night, she had worked with him a couple more times at the convention center and once at the Houston Symphony. She was glad not to be spending the long bus ride next to a complete stranger who might end up being a total jerk.

They chatted for a while, but L’vonte eventually fell asleep in his seat, so Christyn occupied herself doing some more research on this ‘feedism’ business on her phone. She found some erotic literature online featuring fattening protagonists, some being better quality than others. She had to sort through a number of stories featuring the same old tropes (man starts a new job at a bakery and starts packing on the pounds to the delight of his fat-admiring female coworker, woman wakes up tied to a chair with a feeding tube down her throat, etc), and she really wished some of these authors would learn the difference between an ‘overhang,’ which was what your belly did if your pants were too tight, and a ‘hangover,’ which was what you got the day after you drank too much. 

She did find some gems, though, including a lovingly detailed fanfiction of a popular space opera that her dad used to leave on TV when he fell asleep on the couch when she was very young. In the fic, the spaceship captain returned from an away mission having gained a significant amount of weight after spending weeks in diplomatic negotiation on a planet with extremely calorie-dense food, and it was driving his first officer, an alien-hybrid previously obsessed with logic, mad with lust. Christyn felt empathy for that spaceman; like the character, she had always prided herself on values of pragmatism and logic, but there was nothing logical about wanting to watch her boyfriend fatten up out of his clothes. But Damian was so happy, and the new, pillowy excess of his body was so endearing to look at and felt lovely against her palms and her fingers.

She had dusted off the climate change blog she used to operate on an obscure blogging platform and was surfing through a bunch of feeder and feedee blogs when L’vonte stirred awake. She was sure he hadn’t meant to look over her shoulder, but once he did, he couldn’t help but comment. “Why we looking at a bunch of fat people for?”

She blushed furiously. “My senior thesis is on the growing prevalence of adipophilia in the working class. In my paper, I’m going to propose that the stagnant wage is in part responsible for a modern surge in popularity of the sexual attraction towards, as well as an effort to attain, a heavier body type, by making food a luxury for some rather than the everyday convenience it should be,” she quickly invented.

“Well, damn! I mean, I like a girl with some cake, but here you go making it deep. What’s your Masters gonna be in, women and gender studies?”

“Economics.”

He seemed to buy it, which was a relief; Christyn was about to set foot on a college campus for the first time to work these banquets and had been worried about her story not being convincing enough. But L’vonte was about college-aged; if he were in college he’d be there right now, instead of sitting on the bus next to her.

One blog in particular caught her eye, not that she was thirsting over the blogger, although he did have a nice, balanced shape that looked pleasantly soft and softening--rather, she liked the sheer irreverence with which he answered some of his anonymous questions.

Like the answer this one anon got after saying his UGW (ultimate goal weight) wasn’t ambitious enough and that he should aim for a loftier number, perhaps somewhere in the 675 neighborhood:

Hey fucko, I still need to fit behind the bar for work

She followed SpaceCityFeedee2001 and sent him a quick message:

ColderEveryWinter: Hey, I like your spunk and I just wanted to pop in and say hi. Also it’s good to meet a fellow bartender with this kink!

“We sliding in the DMs now?” said L’vonte.

“I’m deep undercover.”

Within minutes, she had a reply.

SpaceCityFeedee2001: Thanks u gaining or encouraging? I can’t rlly tell from ur blog. And you’re bartending, neat! My girl does that. I’m still just a barback, I actually just started my new job today. My boss a whole feeder too, which is kind of weird cause I’m not really into her like that, but so far it hasn’t made any drama so I guess that’s good.

Wait a second...his story was far too familiar. She scrolled through his pictures, but none of them had his face in the frame...one of them, though, was a dead giveaway, and she couldn’t stop herself from blurting, “Is that my hoodie?”

After that, she knew L’vonte knew her secret, but he made no further comment.

They arrived at the university, and Christyn was surprised to see Julian from the BBQ place in uniform near the front of the crowd. “Julian, I didn’t know you worked here!”

“Yeah, this is my second gig. Hey, I heard you took Javier’s job at the Capital Cafe.”

“We shut down last year, not too long after I was promoted,” she said.

“That sucks. Where are you at now?”

“I moved out to Richmond with my new boyfriend and our roommate. I’m working at a hotel now, but I had the week off.”

“Good, so you finally got rid of that Markham creep.”

“Did everyone know but me that Jesse was bad news? And why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Literally everyone told you, Christyn, multiple times. The message just wasn’t going through.”

“Quiet down, everyone!” Abigail came off the bus and clapped her hands together to get everyone to pay attention. “Bartenders to the right, servers to the left, please.”

Julian moved off to the right with a smirk of ‘I’m-a-bartender’ superiority while Christyn raised her hand. “What if we’re doing both?”

“Then get in the group for what you’re doing tonight on this shift.”

She joined L’vonte on the left as Abigail continued to lead pre-shift.

“Alright, folks. Dinner tonight is going to be buffet service, so all you’ll have to do until 8 is clear plates. Dessert, however, is going to be delivered. It’s going to be bananas foster in martini glasses, and it is very, very imperative that you handle them with care. If you don’t think you can hold a tray of 6, get with me or one of the other managers and we will get you help from someone who can.”

Christyn raised her hand again. “Are the bananas fosters going to be on fire?"

She got a few snickers from the crowd and an eye roll from Abigail.

“No, they won’t be on fire. It’s just that not every server here has nine years of experience like you do, and I don’t want anyone who isn’t comfortable holding ten martini glasses on a tray attempting it anyway and spilling on a guest.”

Christyn never even got to serve the bananas fosters on the first day of service. Midway through dinner, she noticed the bus station was piling up with dishes, leaving no room for her to place the stack of dirty plates in her hands. L’vonte came up two paces behind her with a similar dilemma. Christyn decided to drop the dishes off directly to the dishwasher, since there was no place to put them without stacking them precariously high on a table that looked like it might collapse if it was put under any more weight, and L’vonte followed her into the back.

Only, when they got there, they realized there was no dishwasher on staff.

“Shit, what do we do now?” asked L’vonte.

“Crush some dishes, I guess.”

Christyn had never been a dishwasher before. Sure, she had washed dishes at Memorial Lanes back in the day, but they hadn’t had a machine those years ago, and learning to operate the heavy duty washer in the kitchens at Lamar was a learning curve. It took some time, but she and L’vonte eventually figured out how to most efficiently send racks of plates through the washer for servers to pick up and return to the dish station and how to pre-rinse the silverware without squirting themselves or one another with the hose. They fell into stations, Christyn loading, L’vonte unloading, going through the motions of the now-repetitive work over and over until they lost track of time.

After some period of time, a supervisor from the University dining staff poked her head into the dish room. “How are things going in here?”

“Great, we’ve just about finished the lot.” Finally, she checked her phone for the first time that night. “Holy crap, is it really almost 9? We need to find Abigail and let her know where we’ve been!”

“Abigail already knows where y’all are. She said to stay here and keep doing what you’re doing, you’ve really been a great help tonight!”

Later on, after the bus had dropped the crew off at their hotel for the night, Abigail held Christyn and L’vonte back in the lobby while the others found their rooms. “I want to thank you both for showing initiative tonight,” she said, “and, moving forward, I’d like to offer you both a promotion to shift lead. The position entails all the responsibilities you’re already familiar with, along with signing your teammates in and out for payroll and acting as a liaison between the agency and the clients. The paperwork will be uploaded to your employee portals along with some more information; you’ll have to accept the promotion electronically. Now, we’ve all had a long night, and tomorrow you have an early morning, so best get to bed!”

As they wandered up the hallway, searching for their rooms, L’vonte couldn’t stop smiling. “Was that badass or what?”

“First promotion?” Christyn laughed. It was cute, watching new servers delight in the small bright spots this industry had to offer.

“Hey, once we get back to town, we should celebrate! A little cocktail, maybe a little dinner…just as a friend, obviously. From the looks of things, you got a man. I just think we oughta treat ourselves.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “And I’m glad you’re still open to having dinner with the girl who’s into fattening up her man.”

“Girl, we been having dinner already. Be kinda stupid to cut off the friendship just cause I found out this new bit of info.”

“See, you get it...but I know not everyone will.”

***

By the middle of the week, Christyn was starting to feel pretty lonely. She was laying in bed in her hotel room after a bartending shift, watching a porno entitled ‘Gay Feedee Daddy and Bear Cub’ while her roommate, Elaine Blake, was in the shower. Actually, was it technically a porno if there wasn’t any sex? Just a chubby shirtless dude feeding a much bigger shirtless dude a whole box of donuts.

Halfway through, she muttered to herself, “What am I doing?” and phoned Damian.

“Hey Chrissy, what’s up?”

“I’m off work. What are you up to?”

“Not much, I’m off too. I’m actually just finishing up eating dinner.”

“Well I don’t mean to pull you from your conversation with Auralee--”

“I’m on the back patio. It’s weird if she watches.”

“So we can talk, then?”

“Yeah, bet! I’m glad you called, I was worried you were still mad at me.”

“Nah, I just can’t stand to be cooped up in the house, that’s all it is.” Over the line, she heard him make a little groan of satisfaction and something hit the ground softly. “Was...was that a takeout box? Damian, don’t you dare leave that outside! You know how I feel about the environment. Take it to the kitchen and throw it in the trash!”

“Hmm, I kind of like when you get bossy,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it. Just let me sit here and digest for a minute. I’m so stuffed.”

Christyn clenched her thighs together.

“What’d you have for dinner?”

“Auralee ordered Chinese. Beef and broccoli, fried rice...she got herself crab rangoon, too, but she only wanted one of them, so I slammed down the other five. They’re not even my favorite, but I was starving after work.”

“Rough day?”

“Yeah, the other bartender is a slavedriver. Zeke even called her out on it. He’s like, ‘Yeah, crack that whip, girl, make the ancestors proud!’ She calmed down a little after that, but she still ran us around like chickens all shift.”

“Yep, that’s Zeke.” Christyn laughed. “Anyway, I’m kinda lonely...and kinda horny…”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, send me a dick pic.”

“Hang on, lemme just set my camera timer…”

A few seconds later, the picture came in. He had propped his phone up against the railing of the patio and sat reclined on the bench, his expression adorably drowsy and satiated, with his shirt riding up, one hand pressed into the side of his glutted belly and the other wrapped around his massive erection. “Oh my God, I wish that was my hand,” she sighed. “Actually, scratch that: I wish that was my cooch.”

She had more to say--she wanted to order him back to the bedroom and make him jack himself off while giving himself a belly rub. She wanted to tell him to pleasure himself after every meal while she was gone so his stamina would be built up by the time she got back. But that was when Elaine came out of the shower in her fluffy white robe. “Hey Christyn, I snuck a bottle of wine into my bag from the gala, want to--? Oh, you’re on the phone. Sorry!”

Christyn placed her hand over the receiver and said, “Sure, you can pour me one glass.” Then, to Damian, “Sorry. Roommate.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. So, what do the numbers look like?”

“I think I’m actually down a few pounds,” he said, sounding disappointed. “And not because I’m not trying!”

“Aww, I know you’re trying, babe! Do you know your TDEE?”

“My what?”

“Your total daily energy expenditure. Basically how many calories you need to maintain your weight. Let me see here…” She fired up her phone’s browser and found a calculator online. “You’re 5’8”, about 180…”

“I’m 5’9” and a half.”

“Nice try. Okay, it says your TDEE is 2800. Now, one pound of body fat equals 3500 calories. There are seven days in a week, 3500 divided by 7 is 500, so…

“So if I just add 500 extra calories a day on top of my expenses--”

“Expenditure.” 

“Then I’ll be putting on...holy shit, ten pounds a week? Um, nut!”

“Hate to burst your excited little bubble, but it’s only a pound a week. Anyway, Imma let you go so me and this chica can drink this wine,” she said as Elaine presented her with a glass of red poured into one of the plastic mouthwash cups provided by the hotel.

“Aight. I love you!”

Christyn blushed deeply. “Remember, 2800!”

She hung up, took the wine and sipped. “Man, the agency is going to be in so much trouble when this comes up missing from inventory,” she said. “But hey, I’m not the one who stole it.”

“Who said it was one of us? Maybe one of the guests nabbed it.”

“They’re university professors, Elaine. They can afford way better wine than this.”

“So, was that your boo?”

“Yeah,” said Christyn, glad she had been lying on the bed facing the bathroom door, so Elaine wouldn’t see her phone screen.

Elaine took a seat on the other bed with her cup and said, “It’s really sweet of you to help him lose weight.”

Christyn had been having this thought for the last few days. She knew if people knew what she and Damian were doing, they would be judgmental. She had decided it shouldn’t be that way. In a society where to be thin was to be worthy, to take pleasure in food was seen as a vice. But food was life. To desire the comfort of adequate nourishment should be considered normal. To care for someone so much that you strove to protect them from starvation--and even overprotect them--should be a virtue rather than a perversion. So, she turned to Elaine, smiled defiantly, and said, “That’s not what I’m doing.”

Elaine raised an eyebrow. “Elaborate?”

Christyn took the bottle off the nightstand and filled Elaine’s glass to the brim. “Alright, strap in.”

***

On her way home from the ABC office, Christyn stopped by the hotel to pick up last week’s check.

It was Sten and Topher behind the bar. Topher had a 45-caliber pistol strapped to his hip.

“Damn, we’re open carrying behind the bar now?” said Christyn.

“Esteban insists on it, after what happened to you,” said Topher.

“Chrissy!”

Sten got out from behind the bar and hugged her. “I was so worried about you! Come have a smoke with me!”

While they were outside, Sten caught her up on what she had missed. “Ruby’s been a brat, as usual. Me and Topher are kind of an item now. Since the attack on you, he hasn’t been letting me out of his sight, and well, we’ve gotten close. Hey, we were talking, and he thinks you should go with him to buy a gun. He said he’d go to the range with you, help you practice.”

“I already have a gun, but I’ll come to the range, that sounds like fun!”

“And maybe you can join my all female kickboxing class! It’s good training for self defense, and maybe it’ll help you lose a couple of those stubborn pounds!”

Christyn laughed. “Thanks, but the extra weight is staying,” she said, running a hand up her own front. “I like my body. I know it’s hard for some people to understand, but I do. And my man prefers me on the curvy side anyway.”

“Really?”

“In fact, he likes me to be fattening him up a little, too,” she added with a devious smirk.

Sten shifted uncomfortably. “Well, to each his own, I guess.”

“This really is a conservative little town, isn’t it?”

***

When Christyn returned to the mansion in Richmond, Damian was awaiting her with the tightest, warmest hug, and a bottle of French chardonnay, which she had once mentioned to him was her favorite wine varietal, chilling in a bucket of ice on the kitchen table. “This has to be a $60 bottle of Macon--at least!” she said, turning the bottle 360 degrees so she could appraise the label. “You really didn’t have to go to the trouble for me.”

“Don’t worry about it, Auralee and Sabine tip out pretty good, and I wanted to make sure I got you something nice, for an apology present,” he said.

“Apology present? Don’t be stupid, you’ve already paid for my windshield. Besides, I feel like I’m the one who should apologize now--look at you! I leave for a week on business and you’ve wasted away, poor thing!”

He had only lost a miniscule amount of weight, a couple of pounds at the most, but she happened to know, from watching his blog and sending a few anonymous questions, that this was the sort of verbal teasing he liked: attentive, fretting concern over how he was ‘getting too thin,’ even if that was clearly not the case. His cheeks flushed pink and though he shifted to try and hide it, she could see his cock jump to attention, probably at half mast in his sweatpants. “Sit!” she ordered, and pushed him into one of the chairs. “If you’ll be so kind as to crack open that bottle, I’ll take care of dinner, you must be famished!”

She had planned on ordering takeout, but to her surprise and approval, Damian had taken the time to stock up on groceries. Or maybe it had been Auralee, but she doubted that, seeing as Auralee so rarely ate herself. The house, she noted, was strikingly clean, too, which she suspected she could credit to him: without having to ask, she already knew Auralee must have trashed the place at least once on a drunken spree during her absence. The pantry was well-furnished with rice, pasta, a few herbs and spices in addition to the ones she’d already had in there, as well as a respectable amount of canned goods. In the fridge, she found eggs, butter, a vast array of vegetables, and a block of parmesan cheese. “No meat?” she asked, surveying what she had to work with.

“I didn’t know if you’d know how to cook it, since you’re a vegetarian.”

“Aww, you remembered!” She beamed. “For future reference, though, I can cook anything.”

She settled on a simple pasta primavera as an entree, and whipped up a five-ingredient pan of brownies to sit baking in the oven while they had dinner and wine. He ate heartily, praising her skill in the kitchen and asking for seconds and then thirds of pasta, which she dutifully got up and fetched for him, citing his need to ‘sit down, stay relaxed, you’ve done enough work while I was gone and I don’t want to make you burn any more calories than necessary.’ Her words seemed to fuel his vigor, and as he cleaned his third plate, leaning back in his chair to work his thumb under the waistband of his pants and give himself more breathing room, she internally patted herself on the back for a job well done.

For dessert, she moved them to the bedroom, where she sat him on the edge of the bed and fulfilled his longtime fantasy of feeding him while sitting in his lap. “Come on, another bite, sweetheart,” she coaxed him, “we need to get some meat back on your bones.” Even with his mouth full, he voiced his enthusiasm with little ‘mhmms’ and moans of pleasure. Once he’d finished, she set his plate on the nightstand and began to lay on the praise. “You ate so much for me tonight...such a good boy! I’m so proud of you, Damian, and so turned on, too...now lie down on the bed and let me see what I’ve done to you.”

She rid him of his shirt and ran her hands upward from his hips over the dome of his full stomach, round and tight under a layer of pliable pudge. “Good God, you’re so pretty when you’re full.” She took a small bottle of lotion from the nightstand and squeezed a dollop into her hand, rubbing both of them together to warm it up before returning her attention to his belly. The extra lubrication allowed her to massage deeper as her hands glided over his skin, and his breath started to come out in deep exhales of satisfaction.

“God, that feels so good. Where’d you learn that?”

“From a video. It was a long bus ride, so I did some more research on my phone.”

His cock was now standing fully at attention against the inside of her thigh as she straddled him. She was surprised he hadn’t deduced that she’d found his blog, or if he had, that he hadn’t said anything, as she said all the words she knew he wanted to hear, not that this was solely a performance for his benefit--she meant all of it. He was probably having a bit of trouble thinking straight, though. His blood was clearly rushing south and all he seemed capable of saying was “Please, Chrissy, please, please, please,” hips bucking up into her as his engorged cock yearned for relief.

She helped him out of his pants, tore a condom out of its wrapper, and rolled it onto his erect penis. She mounted him and began to ride him, still caressing the sweet little swell of his full gut. His length and girth were a lot easier for her to take in when she was on top, since she could control his pace and depth. It didn’t hurt either that she was so aroused she was dripping.

Perhaps she was a little too good at playing out his fantasies--she wasn’t on top of him for long before he came, gripping her hips and screaming her name before he became a mess of stammered apologies. “It’s okay,” she assured him. “You missed me. I missed you too. But you can make it up to me in the morning if you eat my pussy before I stuff you with breakfast.”


	20. NINETEEN

**NINETEEN**

Damian awoke still pleasantly sated from last night’s wonderful dinner. He rubbed his belly absently, only to have Christyn slip her hand underneath of his.

She was awake, smoking a cigarette and watching something on the TV with the volume off. He must have become so used to the smell of smoke that he hadn’t noticed it; in fact, he had missed it in her absence. Now, it brought him comfort, and might have actually lulled him back to sleep if she hadn’t put out her smoke and pinned him to the bed by his shoulders the moment she realized he’d stirred. “Good morning to you too, cupcake,” he said with a laugh. Though she’d promised to make use of his mouth this morning, it looked like the plan had changed; she just couldn’t wait to take him for another ride, not that he was complaining. He lasted a lot longer underneath her than he had last night, when he’d had the double-whammy of being stuffed and stimulated to contend with. He took the opportunity to run his hands up and down her body, giving her thighs, ass, and waist plenty of appreciative squeezes and caresses. Back when he was thin, he had envied her for the luscious softness her body had to offer, evidence of a well-fed and well-financed lifestyle. In the time he had known her, her body hadn’t changed much, unless she was under an amount of stress that tamped down her appetite, but his had been through a great deal of change, and now that he was the heavier one of the two, he found the contrast between them mesmerizing. She felt so little and dainty and feminine now, on top of his broader, wider frame.

“What’s your workday look like today?” she asked as they dressed and made their way downstairs for breakfast.

“Split double, opening with Auralee, breaking out at 2, then I come back at 3 and close with Beans. Sabine, I mean.” Over dinner last night, he’d briefly detailed how his work week had gone, including his clocked hours on the battlefield under ‘Sergeant’ Sabine Mathison. Christyn had found that nickname clever. He hadn’t told her about his accidental encounter over webcam with Beans, though.

“Beans is the tough one, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I can’t run the risk of you collapsing on the floor on her watch, can I?” She whipped up a thick stack of French toast on the stove and insisted that he eat every last bite, not that she had to insist very hard. Between the temptation of intoxicating overfullness, the knowledge that he wouldn’t get a chance to eat again until 2 (unless he wanted to settle for Auralee’s nasty bowling alley fare), and Christyn’s culinary genius, breakfast went down in record time before Auralee came downstairs to take him to work.

“Chrissy feed you well?” asked Auralee over the radio on the drive.

“Yeah, she takes good care of me,” said Damian. He leaned back in his seat and thought about taking a nap, but then Auralee hit a pothole head on and he remembered why it was useless to try and relax while she was in the driver’s seat. He just hoped she wouldn’t make him motion-sick.

“I may have underestimated her as a feeder,” said Auralee.

“Oh, yeah, she’s a natural.” She indulged his every wish and she made him feel loved, even if she never said the L word. He didn’t share that last part with Auralee, though, not wanting to give her any ammunition.

It was on Auralee’s shift that Virtue Kingston called him into her office behind the front desk. He thought she was going to talk to him about wearing sweatpants to work again, but Auralee had already resolved that issue for him, hadn’t she?

The conversation took an unexpected turn right off the bat. 

“Something fishy is going on in that restaurant,” she said, pacing her office in a skirted suit and Loubotins, shuffling through a stack of expense reports.

“Fishy how?” asked Damian. She stopped in her pacing and stared straight at him.

“Don’t you think the food costs are way too low to be accurate?”

“I don’t really look at the numbers,” Damian started to say, but she spoke over him before he could complete the next part of his thought.

“I think Auralee is misreporting her expenses in order to get me to increase her budget, but I haven’t been able to catch her in the act...but, if I was able to rely on the reports of someone who works closely with her…”

Now, it wasn’t as though he and Auralee had never had a disagreement, but for the most part, she treated him well as an employee. She’d gotten him the job, she took him to work every day...besides all this, she was Christyn’s best friend, even if those two did butt heads from time to time. In light of this all, betraying her was out of the question. Anyway, why was it his problem if she was cooking the books?

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kingston, but spying on Auralee is above my pay grade.”

“It’s a shame you feel that way,” said Virtue. “By the way, have you heard about the Keto diet?”

After Virtue dismissed him, he walked back to the bar carrying a sense of dread. It had not been his best idea to snark off at the lady in charge of his entire workplace, who happened to be married to a former detective from the HPD, while he had open warrants. Emmett Kingston’s status and connections could protect him, but, should he suddenly find himself in bad standing with Virtue, that protection might be yanked from under his feet.

“I wouldn’t worry about your job or your freedom,” Auralee assured him over the break when he brought it up. “Now that I’m thin and beautiful and have no problems whatsoever,” she went on, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Daddy’s wrapped around my finger, and if I vouch for you, you’ll be safe. And I will vouch for you. Not every barback I’ve had has been as loyal as you. Not many have had the audacity to defy my mom to her face...most of them agreed to go digging in my business for her and then never followed through, but the ones that did...well, I had to get rid of them. Be prepared to feel some retaliation, though. There are some things here at Memorial Lanes that fall within Mommy’s power.”

“Like what?”

“Well, payroll, for one.”

He had gotten so caught up talking to Auralee that he had forgotten to eat lunch, and by the halfway point of his shift with Beans, he was running on fumes. He still had enough steam to go on, but he was slowing down, and she noticed when she caught him pausing for breath in the expo window.

“The Hell is wrong with you today?” she snapped.

“I’m sorry, Sabine, it’s just I’ve been here since this morning, and I haven’t ate since breakfast, and I’m hungry as fuck.”

“Well, the rush is in full swing, so suck it up! You can eat when you’re dead!”

“That doesn’t even make any sense!”

Eventually, she let him break and drink a soda, which helped his energy level, but by the time the shift was over, he felt wrecked. When Auralee came to pick him up from work, she was drunk, but he didn’t know the way home, so against his better judgment, he let her drive. He was half nauseated with hunger at this point, which she picked up on when he slumped in his seat with his forehead pressed to the dash. Just about the only drawback to this weight gain thing was how much more he needed to eat just to feel satisfied. Back when he was thinner, hunger had been uncomfortable, but it was a pain he was used to. Now, it was on par with torture. “Aww, you must have worked straight through dinner...here, I’ll buy you a snack.” She stopped at a drive-through and bought him a burger and a chocolate milkshake. He didn’t like to eat in front of her, knowing it did something for her, and knowing her history of competing with Christyn over men, but tonight, he would make an exception. The burger wasn’t great, but after the day he’d had, getting some food down felt so good, he could have cried.

Halfway back to Richmond, it started to rain, and Auralee lost control of the car, partially due to the deep puddles, partially due to being drunk, and partially due to just being a terrible driver--and he was sure it didn’t help that she kept stealing sly sideways glances at him while he was trying to eat. They did a full spin on the empty freeway before she was able to screech to a halt and right herself. “Let’s not tell Chrissy about that, yeah?”

He resolved not to tell Christyn, not wanting her to worry, but he did have to confess to missing lunch after she caught him raiding the fridge at 3 AM, still hungry, and from that point on, she started sending him to work with a sack lunch.

One Friday afternoon when he, Will, and Auralee were scheduled to close together, Auralee got them there a few minutes early and disappeared into the office, leaving him alone with Sabine in the bar area. “Damn,” said Sabine as he unpacked three baguette sandwiches in a plastic bag. “That feeder chick of yours is really trying to test the waistband of those sweatpants, huh?”

“Actually, she said one of these is for Zeke--they’re old friends, see,” he explained, “and one’s for you.” He left out the part where Christyn had said, Maybe if that Beans girl got a good meal in her once in a while, she wouldn’t be so cranky.

They sat down at the bar, made themselves comfortable, and saved a place for Zeke, who showed up a few minutes late for his scheduled in-time, but before any action started to pick up in the restaurant nevertheless. “What’s all this, we having a picnic?”

“Christyn says hi,” said Damian, “and she made you lunch.”

The sandwiches were delicious, loaded with cold cuts, fresh vegetables, mayo, and some sort of Vietnamese hot sauce. Both Zeke and Sabine agreed Christyn was some kind of wizard in the kitchen, and though Damian was glad to catch this moment with his friends, just talking and kicking back at the bar over some good food, he couldn’t shake the anxiety that had been following him around all week, and he kept glancing over his shoulder at the office door.

“You guys missed a mess the other night!” said Zeke. “Will asked out Auralee to a fancy cafe on the west side.”

“Isn’t she like, 30?” said Sabine. “And what did she say?”

“She said no...then she said maybe, if he’d be willing to put on some weight for her. Mind y’all, she was drunk and she said it at about top volume in front of a line of people out the door. Guy was so humiliated he looked like he was gonna cry.”

“That’s fucking gold!” Sabine laughed. “Damian, no comment?”

“I wonder what’s taking Auralee so long in there.”

Auralee was angry when she reported to the bar. “Damn bitch, thinks she can do whatever the fuck she wants to my employees,” she muttered under her breath. “Beans, you can take off for the day, I got this.”

But Beans seemed intent on sticking around to see the mounting drama. “What’s going on? Is your mom on her shit again?”

Sure enough, Virtue Kingston strode into the restaurant, envelopes in hand. “You know what day it is! Damian, I have your check here at the top of the stack...a word, outside, if you will?”

She seemed cheerful today, but Damian knew off the bat that the brightness of her tone was just as fake as all the plastic in her face. “Now, I know this is going to come as a disappointment, but, given the recent expansion within the company, I’m having to issue pay cuts across the board.” She handed him his check and when he tore it open, his fears were confirmed.

“7.25? But Auralee said I’d be starting at twelve!”

“I’m sorry, Damian. I’m sure my daughter promised a lot of new hires more money than we can pay out right now. If you’ll return to your post, I’d like to speak to the others one-on-one as well.”

She took Will aside next, and Damian didn’t stick around, just headed back into the beer cooler to rearrange the kegs before tomorrow's delivery. A couple shifts ago, he’d had to change five of them--the full ones had still been too heavy for him to lift up onto the shelves at the time, but today, after some use, the ones he’d left on the floor were empty enough so he could move them up to make room for the new ones. The physical exertion helped make him feel a little better, but he was still pissed off and highly suspicious of Mrs. Kingston. She couldn’t have really cut everyone’s hourly pay, could she?

He loaded up a bucket of beers for the cooler behind the bar, and on his way back to the front, he asked Zeke, who had taken his place on the grill, “Did you get your pay cut?”

“No, why?”

Sabine was still sitting at the bar, waiting for someone to fill her in on the hot gossip. “Hey, Beans, Mrs. K cut your pay today?”

“I already got my pay cut, last year, when she asked me to dig some dirt on Auralee for her and I told her she could get bent. Is that what happened to you?”

“Damn, you got your pay cut?” asked Will, who was sweeping the already spotless dining room floor in an attempt to look busy.

“Yeah, you too?” asked Damian.

“Nah, bro, I got a raise. Mrs. K. said I’ve shown a great improvement lately.”

“What the fuck? So she cuts me, and gives your ass more money?”

Will shrugged. “Did you fuck up somehow?”

Damian had never felt more insulted in his life. It was thanks to his patience and guidance that Will even knew how to handle the rush at this place, and the guy still could barely move an empty keg an inch off the ground!

It was slow for a Friday night, which was fortunate, because Auralee spent most of the shift furiously typing on her phone, leaving Damian to handle all of the pouring and ringing up behind the bar. Zeke stepped in and out of his station to catch the scoop from Sabine, who had still not gone home, and Will was shooting the shit with some of the ladies at one of the lanes, so Damian ended up handling most of expo, too.

As the shift started to wind down, Zeke approached him in the well and said, “I think you have the grounds to take Ms. Virtue to court.”

“For what?”

“I have a good guess, but first, inform me: exactly what did Ms. Virtue say to you out there?”

“Just that she was issuing pay cuts due to some recent expansion--”

“Hold it right there,” said Zeke. “Did what she said sound like a veiled fat joke?”

“I...what? Maybe?”

“You might have a case for weight discrimination,” said Zeke.

“I can sue for that?”

“Yeah, I mean, the legality of weight discrimination is still kind of up in the air, but if you did take this to court, there is a precedent for this kind of case in the county. Kane v McIntyre, 2020, look it up.”

“Trust me, you have a case,” said Auralee, who had been listening in on and off, and handed him her phone. Just then, five people came up to the bar, so Damian left Auralee’s phone by the printer and helped her knock out the beer orders as she finally took her place on the register.

Before the end of the shift, Zeke made himself a quesadilla and offered Damian half, but Damian turned him down--while anxiety made him want to eat like crazy to drown his worries with a comforting pressure in his stomach, anger had the opposite effect on his appetite. So Zeke went halvsies with Sabine while Damian mopped, swept, and took out the trash, and when he came back inside, finally took a look at what Auralee had wanted to show him.

It was an email correspondence between Auralee and her mother:

_Mother,_

_I am writing to ask in the most formal way I know, to reconsider your actions in adjusting the pay rate of my barback Damian Mendez. When I hired Damian, I had promised him his salary based on experience of which he has plenty, with the possibility of advancement or pay raise based on performance. If you were to sit in and observe him at work for one shift, you would agree his performance was deserving of a raise (although I doubt you’d give it to him.) But please consider bumping him back up to 12._

_Thanks, Auralee_

_\--_

_Dearest Auralee,_

_Payroll has always been my final call. The blame for promising a new hire a higher hourly rate than we are able to pay rests squarely on your shoulders. If what you say about your employee is true, then hopefully this cut will incentivize him to keep working hard, if not harder, for your tipout, and hopefully shed a few lbs in the process._

_Virtue Kingston_

_Owner and Operator, Memorial Lanes Bowling Center_

Once Auralee finished counting the register, she declared, “I need a drink. Who’s with me? I’m buying.” Damian was the first to fall in line, despite still being two years shy of 21, and Zeke and Sabine soon joined them.

“Where’s the party?” asked Will as he made his way out.

“Nowhere,” said Damian, “Go home.”

All through the car ride, he fumed. “Man, fuck that guy! I helped him, and now he’s the first one to stand by and let me get crushed under the boot!”

“Calm down. man. Forget about Will,” said Zeke. “We need to talk about your legal case.”

They pulled up at the Sapphire Lounge, which Damian remembered--the last time he set foot in here, he had been asking the bartender to borrow a squeegee sharpener. He was glad the bartender didn't seem to remember him.

They got a table on the back patio, and Auralee went inside to buy the group a round of shots. Damian choked his down, trying not to cough or complain--he didn’t like the burn, but he did like the buzz.

“What you need to do,” said Zeke, “is get all your warrants cleared. Hopefully that won’t take too long, and the wages you’ve missed out due to the pay cut will only amount to, let’s say $3000?”

Damian knew Zeke was underestimating his list of warrants by a long shot. The only way he could hope to get back in good standing with the courts now was to spend a few years in jail, but there was too much gloom and doom in his work life right now for him to think about that, so he let Zeke carry on with this relatively lighthearted scenario where he sued his current boss.

“If you take Ms. Virtue to small claims court for the money, you don’t have to pay for a lawyer, you can represent yourself. You cite discrimination as the basis for the unfair pay, and then...well, then, you run the risk of being tied up in litigation for months and months on end, as happens often in small claims cases. But, I suspect that won’t happen, ‘cause if I know Ms. Virtue at all, she’ll then try to counter-sue you for fraud. At this point the state should pick up your attorney if you can’t afford one, but I’d hope you’d think of ol’ boy, since I’ll be out of school by then. You could pay me later, we could work something out.”

“And then?”

“Well, then, you proceed to trial.”

They’d all been standing around the table, but then, suddenly, Zeke pushed Damian onto the bench. “Mind stating your name and occupation for the jury, son?”

Zeke really wanted to do this here?

Damian looked around; Auralee and Sabine seemed to be waiting for him to play along. So, after a few seconds, he figured, why not? This might be fun, especially after a few more drinks. “Alright, fine, Damian Mendez, and I’m a barback at Memorial Lanes,” he said, rolling his eyes a little at the absurdity of it all.

“Hey, cool it on the attitude, bro, I’m your defense attorney. Work with me,” said Zeke, before slipping back into character. “And what is the grounds of your suit against your current employer?”

“Well, I signed a contract promising me $12 an hour, and suddenly I get cut down to minimum wage, while the skinny dude gets a raise even though he does a quarter of the work I do.”

“I see, and do you find that your comparatively higher weight in relation to your colleague’s gives you any difficulty in performing the daily functions of work?”

“No, in fact, I’m the one that doesn’t whine like a piss-baby whenever Beans makes me go in the cooler.”

“It’s true,” Sabine whispered to Auralee. “Will always complains. Half the time I have to drown him out with my own screaming just to keep myself sane.”

“So,” Zeke went on, “you would say that your employer has no fair grounds on which to cut you a minimum wage paycheck?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Just then, Auralee seemed to get an idea. She strode forward, pulled her hair back into a bun with a rubber band around her wrist, and announced, “The advocation for Virtue Kingston wishes to cross-examine!”

Zeke shrugged. “Your witness, I guess.”

Though Auralee was supposed to be playing her mother’s lawyer, Damian thought she was doing a good impression of Virtue herself, all standing up straight, arms crossed, chin out, staring down her nose as if she’d just seen something disgusting. “Mr. Mendez, tell the courtroom, what was your start date at Memorial Lanes?”

“Sometime in early June, 2021.”

“And what is your current BMI?”

“Oh, hey, I know this one!” Christyn had calculated it for him one night in her head after the latest readout from the scale. “26.6.” Placing him just over the line into ‘medically overweight’ territory, a fact which got him excited whenever he thought about it.

“I see, placing you in the category of ‘clinically overweight,’” said Auralee, as if reading his mind. “And are you able to provide any documentation of any gym memberships, visits to a nutritionist or weight management specialist, anything that would show the court you’ve made an effort to get your weight under control?”

“Do texts from my girlfriend count? She makes me eat a salad like twice a week, something about vitamins.” He earned himself a laugh from Zeke and a few bystanders, and even Auralee almost broke character to crack a smile.

But then she turned to stone again. “So you can’t provide any of the documentation I’ve asked for?”

“Well, no, but--”

“Then who is to say that you haven’t been deliberately maintaining an above-average BMI in order to carry out a fraudulent lawsuit against my client on the grounds of perceived ‘discrimination’ in retaliation to a performance-based adjustment to your pay?”

To that, he had no response. He knew Auralee didn’t mean any of that; in fact, it was impressive seeing her go so deeply into character. There were no hard feelings, but if they really threw this at him in court, he’d be stumped. After all, he really had put on most of the weight on purpose. A few of the strangers at the bar had started to take interest and make comments:

“What’s all this?”

“I didn’t come out expecting a show, but hey, I’ll take it.”

Auralee smacked the surface of the table. “HA! GOTCHA! You’re a fraud artist, and you’re going back to jail!”

From the crowd:

“Can she do that? Can she send a dude to jail just for being a little thick?”

“Nobody’s going to jail, they’re probably just holding a mock trial. I think I remember that one guy from my Consumer Law class.”

“I think I remember that other guy from county jail.”

At some point during the ‘cross-examination,’ Sabine had left, and as she returned with another round of shots, one of the onlookers said, “Wait, don’t ol’ boy get a character witness?”

“That”s a great idea,” said Zeke. “The defense calls to the stand Sabine Mathison!”

They all took their shots, Damian once again choking his down. He thought he might puke, until a total stranger offered him a cola to wash it down. He stood up and switched places with Sabine, and Zeke started up again with, “Will you please state your name and occupation for the court?”

“My name, as you’ve just stated, is Sabine Mathison, and I’m the assistant lead bartender at Memorial Lanes.”

“And how would you characterize your relationship with the defendant?”

“He is my direct subordinate.”

“And how would you rate his performance on the job?”

“He’s the most competent barback we’ve had in all of the two years I’ve worked here, and we’ve been through a lot of them.”

“Well, there you have it,” said Zeke. “My opponent wishes to suppose that she pays her employees on the basis of performance, but as we can see, that’s not the case.”

“Hold on, she’s my witness now,” said Auralee, just catching the end of Zeke’s speech as she came back out from inside the bar with more shots. Damian groaned and chucked his back, wondering how the others did this so easily so many times in a row, and Auralee took Zeke’s place to address the ‘witness'.

“Ms. Mathison, it is my understanding that the employment contract at Memorial Lanes does not include a non-fraternization clause.”

“That’s correct,” said Sabine.

“Tell me, Ms. Mathison, have you ever fraternized with the defendant?”

For a moment, Damian held his breath, wondering if Auralee knew about his short encounter with Sabine over a webcam.

But Sabine held it together, sat up straight, and lied. “Not once,” she said, “and even if I had, don’t think for a minute I’d show him a lick of favoritism. Besides...my heart already belongs to someone else in the company.”

“Oh?”

“Zeke Thomas, on grills.”

Damian and Auralee both gasped. Zeke, for his part, seemed unperturbed. “Good misdirection, girl, we got this!” He gave Sabine a high five as she stood from the ‘witness stand.’ “Ey, I’m finna go get us some more alcohol. Yo Dame, mind stepping in in your own defense this round?”

“Why the fuck not?” He was really starting to have fun with this, probably because the alcohol was hitting him full-force by now. To be honest, when Zeke had first put him in the hot seat, he had expected flashbacks from actual court, but this was nothing like that, just a bunch of drunk people making fun of their boss.

“I guess that makes me Virtue’s lawyer,” said Sabine.

“I thought I was my mom’s lawyer,” said Auralee.

“Not if I call you to the stand. You know the drill: name, occupation, position, and all that jazz,” said Sabine as she stood up and motioned for Auralee to take her place.

The transition in Auralee’s carriage was striking; one second, she was walking around like she owned the place, and the next, she was slumped in the bench with her elbow on the table and her legs up on the seat so she took up the whole length of it, much more like the Auralee Damian was used to. She shook her hair out of its bun and said, “Auralee Kingston, food and beverage manager, bar manager, lead bartender, and third and youngest child of the owner of Memorial Lanes, not that it matters. That hag cuts me no slack.”

Damian’s phone dinged then. It was Christyn: Just got off a shift @ the federal reserve. U still at work?

He typed a quick response, At Sapphire, on trial for fraud if u wanna come thru, and returned his attention to the girls.

“Ms. Kingston, would you please run us through your list of responsibilities at Memorial Lanes?”

“Sure. I’m responsible for all the purchasing and inventory in the restaurant, as well as the scheduling of bartenders, barbacks, and servers. I also take restaurant reservations, I handle phones, and I speak to beer and liquor reps.”

“I see. So you pretty much handle it all?”

“You could say that.”

“How often does your mother step into the restaurant area?”

“Only to hand out checks.”

“My opponent claims his client had his wages adjusted on a discriminatory basis; however, given your mother’s minimal involvement in the restaurant side of Memorial Lanes, would she even have the time to single out one employee and cut his wages almost in half for the simple act of existing behind the bar whilst modestly overweight?”

“She cut me into thirds, so why not?”

“Are you referring to a personal pay cut you’ve been issued?”

“No, I’m referring to the bariatric surgery I underwent at my mother’s insistence some years ago, which resulted in what some of my acquaintances call ‘bariatric psychosis’ along with what I believe might be PTSD as a result of me waking up on the operation table, due to an error of my anesthesiologist.”

“And are you able to provide documentation of these psychological conditions?” asked Sabine.

“It doesn’t take a genius to read the DSM or use a search engine.”

“And self-diagnoses aren’t admissible in court.”

With all this talk of documentation, Damian wished he had brought up the emails Auralee had shown him while he was in the hot seat. Those alone might have won him the case. Then again, he was having fun watching Sabine and Auralee go at each other’s throats.

“Tell me, Ms. Kingston, you cohabitate with the defendant, do you not?”

“Yes, I pay a small rent at the house he and a friend of mine are sharing.”

“And have you ever fraternized with the defendant?”

“Of course not, he’s spoken for.”

“But you’ve thought about it?”

“How is that relevant to the case?”

“Ooh, I didn’t hear a ‘no,’” said Sabine. “There you have it--if the fault lays with anyone, it is with young Miss Kingston for promising her employee an extravagant starting wage in likely anticipation of some sort of sexual reciprocation. Your witness.” She stepped aside and looked expectantly at Damian.

Auralee was looking at him too. Her face was downcast but her eyes were locked on his, making her look a lot like an evil clown in a horror movie. She seemed to have something she wanted to say; she’d had that same look on her face ever since the subject of her surgery had come up. So he went with that, hoping she might give him something to work with.

“Ms. Kingston, can you go over the details of the surgery you mentioned?”

“Sure; I underwent the initial procedure in 2014. In the two years following the surgery, I had lost 50 pounds; another five years and my weight finally stabilized at a net loss of 200. Since 2014, I’ve also undergone two corrective surgeries due to complications of the first, and I’m anticipating another corrective surgery early next year. Oh, and in case anyone missed it, I woke up on the surgery table.”

“Yeah, I got that the first time.” It sounded horrific; Damian had always had the sense that Auralee hadn’t really wanted to go through with the operation, and it seemed to him like she had good reason. Which begged a question that had been burning in his mind for quite some time that he’d never had the chance to ask...so why not now? “When you got the operation you were…” He counted backwards in his head. “Twenty-one?”

“Twenty-three,” said Auralee.

“Irregardless--”

“That’s not a word.”

“--you were a legal adult,” he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted him. “You said you got the surgery because your mother insisted, yet she couldn’t force you at that age. What was your reason for going through with it?”

“Medically, I didn’t have one,” said Auralee, her voice a slow drawl. “I had a perfectly clean bill of health, and though you’re right in that Mommy couldn’t force me, she did say I’d do it if I wanted to keep my job, and my share of the inheritance.”

The onlookers gave a collective gasp.

She said, “Maybe I don’t really need this job. The greater Houston area is full of bars that are hiring. But I know what my mother is like, and even all those years ago I knew I couldn’t just stand by and let her treat her staff with the same indignity she gave to me.”

Said, “I do hope I’m a good manager.”

It was probably the alcohol that had made her get all sentimental; he doubted she would remember any of this in the morning. Nevertheless, he found himself feeling a deep sympathy for her. As she took a cigarette out of her bag, he sat down across from her and said, not as a fake lawyer but just as a friend, “There you have it. I think we’re all entitled to reparations from that bowling alley, you most of all.”

She passed him a cigarette across the table, and he lit up with her. “Thank you,” she said, “but you’re still not acquitted for fraud.”

Behind him, he heard mixed grunts in the crowd, along with a soft, “Excuse me, excuse me, I’m sorry…” until Christyn pushed her way through the crowd and ran up to him. “Damian, what does this mean? ‘On trial for fraud--?’”

He felt his cheeks go hot. “It’s just a game...I’m not really in trouble…” He proceeded to explain to her what had happened with his paycheck and how he wound up at the bar, while Auralee brought her up to speed on the events of the mock trial so far.

“You could have explained that over text! I think I had four heart attacks on the drive here, I was afraid you’d caught another charge!” Christyn reached down to cup his face, tilting his head so he looked up at her while she stroked his cheek with the pad of her thumb. “Never, and I mean, NEVER, do that to me again.”

Zeke returned, holding two shots in each hand. “Well, look here, it’s Christmas Day!”

“It’s summer,” Damian pointed out.

“That’s one of his nicknames for me,” Christyn explained.

“Shit, if I knew you were coming, I woulda bought you a shot, girl!” Zeke passed the shots out to Damian, Auralee, and Sabine, but Damian was not feeling up to this round. He already had a good buzz going, but he felt like another shot might take his ability to walk. He was also regretting missing dinner; now that his anger about all the workplace drama had subsided, he felt himself becoming more miserably hungry by the second, and he knew more liquor without any food to hold it down would just make him more miserable.

Luckily, Christyn was eager to come to his rescue, as always. “I think I deserve this,” she said, taking the shot glass from his hand and downing its contents, no chaser, no ice.

Everyone else took their shots, and Auralee, once she swallowed, grabbed Christyn by the arm and threw her on the bench. “Take the stand!” she exclaimed. “Name! Occupation! Relationship to the defendant!”

“Oh, geez, um…” Christyn squirmed in her seat.

God, what it did to him, just seeing her shift her weight from one hip to the other. Her ankles crossing and uncrossing.

“Christyn Victoria Brandywine, bartender at the Hotel Flamenco; shift lead, bartender and server with ABC Hospitality. Our defendant used to work directly underneath me, but nowadays I find myself underneath him quite a bit, too.”

A few people in the crowd snickered, along with Zeke and Sabine. Meanwhile, Auralee was putting her hair back up and getting back into prosecutor mode.

“And how would you describe his job performance, in your own words?”

For a moment, Damian thought Christyn might bring up some humiliating detail of his time at the Capital, like how she had to be the one to teach him how to change a keg, or how he’d screwed up trying to strain a martini (a skill he had yet to master), but she never betrayed him. “Damian has always been an exceptional employee. He’s quick, eager to take direction, has a passion for cleanliness that borders on obsession, and most importantly, always steps up to help his team.”

For a moment, Auralee looked stumped, but she quickly bounced back: “And what were the dates of your term of employment with the defendant?”

“March of 2020 to June of that same year.”

“And what was his approximate weight at the time?”

Wherever Auralee was going with this, there was no way Christyn could produce a number that was anything more than a rough guesstimate.

“140,” said Christyn, sounding a little meek.

“How did you know that?” asked Damian.

“Your arrest record.”

“BOOYAH!” Auralee slapped the table once more. “Ms. Brandywine can’t vouch for the defendant’s workplace performance in his current condition, and therefore, her testimony should be thrown out.”

“But you called me to the stand,” Christyn protested.

“She’s wasted,” said Sabine.

“She said 140,” Zeke breathed with a note of disbelief. For a moment, he was silent, seeming to contemplate his next move. Finally, he approached Christyn and said, “Alright, let’s get this cross-examination underway. My first question for you is, exactly how many years of restaurant and hospitality work do you have?”

“Going on nine.” 

“And at which level would you rate your own proficiency in the kitchen?”

“Expert.”

“Do you cook at home, Ms. Brandywine?”

“Yes, every day if I can manage it!”

“And do you think your relationship with the defendant has had a direct causation with his significant weight gain?”

“Definitely.”

“And did you ever attempt to encourage him to lose weight?”

“No. I mean, I make him eat a salad like twice a week, but that’s more for what I call ‘positive nutrition;’ there’s nothing sexy about vitamin deficiency.”

“But there is something sexy about a dude putting on thirty pounds while he be dating you?”

“Closer to forty, and hey, that’s just more to love.”

“Interesting.” Zeke smirked, pacing slowly back and forth. “My opponent wishes to accuse my client of deliberately remaining overweight in order to fraudulently sue her for discrimination, but as we have all just heard, his resistance to any diet plan is a result of the machinations of this woman--”

“Hey, wait a second! ‘Machinations?’ Why do I have to be the villain, here?” Christyn cut him off.

“Hey, cool it, Chrissy, I’m the one trying to get your boy acquitted of fraud in this hypothetical court of law!”

“She’s right, though, it was my idea, not hers,” Damian confessed.

“Your idea? Explain,” said Zeke.

“I put on forty pounds on purpose, Christyn’s just been here supporting me, though I do have her do all the math when it comes to stuff like calories and stats.” He didn’t know why he was suddenly okay with admitting this to a whole patio full of people listening in, but the alcohol probably had a lot to do with it.

“Bro, you are not helping your fraud case right now,” said Zeke.

“On the contrary,” Christyn cut in, “I think knowingly altering your body in a way society will disapprove of, in the pursuit of personal and sexual pleasure, is one of the most genuine and least fraudulent things anyone can ever do.”

“She said for sexual pleasure,” Zeke repeated, his head tilted with surprise and curiosity. “Y’all really on that Auralee shit, huh?”

“Furthermore, I think all the folks who adhere to a set of restrictions and regiments they hate, all in pursuit of an unrealistic body type dictated by photo editing software and rich old white men in charge of the diet industry, are the real fraud artists, so deep in the lie they’re even fooling themselves. But hey, to all who’d let the capitalists win, that’s your business, I guess.”

Someone in the crowd said, “Hear, hear!” In less than a minute, three shots had been delivered to Christyn by a server, courtesy of people in the audience.

“Oh, I can’t, I have to drive,” she said, so Auralee took all three of them one after the other.

In the end, the mock trial dissolved into laughter, with no real verdict. Christyn disappeared inside, and when she came back, she had a glass of beer, which she handed to Damian. “I can always tell when you’ve missed a meal,” she said. “You get all vacant in the eyes, and I can almost see you already getting thinner in the face, but maybe it’s just because you don’t smile. Anyway, the kitchen is closed, but drink this, it should make you feel better.”

He took a couple sips and found that he did feel a lot better. He couldn’t taste it due to the lingering aftertaste of hard liquor, but it filled him up pleasantly and gently renewed his buzz. “What is this?” he asked.

“An IPA, locally brewed. I’ll get you some real food on the way home.”

“I was just about to ask if I could catch a ride with you.”

“Oh, you and Auralee are both coming with me. There’s no way I’m letting her drive in her state.”

On the drive back to Richmond, Christyn stopped at a taco truck she must have discovered on one of her trips into or out of the city and bought him two tacos and a soda. He finished the first one in record time, even if he was having a bit of trouble keeping it all inside the tortilla. As he started in on the second one, Christyn pulled over in a gas station parking lot and took it out of his hands to hold it to his mouth. He bit in gladly, but felt a little self-conscious: “We’re doing this right in front of Auralee?”

“Well, you’re spilling cabbage in your lap, so I thought I’d help you out. Anyway, don’t worry about her, she’s so drunk she probably can’t see,” said Christyn.

Auralee was indeed very far gone, laying across the backseat and breathing shallow. “I can hear jus’ fine, though,” she said. “By the way, when’s one of us gonna bring up what’s really on all’ve our mind?”

“What, that you said you would fuck me?” said Damian. Well, technically, she just hadn’t said she hadn’t thought about it, but her message came through pretty clear. “Don’t feel bad about it, I actually thought about you like that one time, but you from the picture, back when you were in the 300-plus club.”

“Wait, did I miss something?” asked Christyn. “I mean, I feel like there’s this looming subject we’ve all avoided talking about tonight, but I’ve been under the impression it was Kane v McIntyre.”

The case, she explained, had been one of the most pivotal in the blue-collar industry in the last decade. What happened was this: an employee at a shipping and receiving company was being rudely chastised by his supervisor on the job for the pace of his work, until the supervisor finally shoved him, screaming, Out of the way, fatass! Unfortunately, the supervisor knocked him right in the path of some heavy machinery, and he was injured grievously. He filed for workman’s compensation, but was denied after failing a drug test for marijuana. So, he decided to sue for weight discrimination, despite having a BMI of only 28.2 and a full range of mobility before the accident, making him disqualified for protection under the Americans With Disabilities Act. The jury sided unanimously with him, which probably had a lot to do with the fact that he showed up to court with both legs in casts. So, if Damian seriously wanted to take Virtue Kingston to court, he might have to bleed on the clock if he wanted any sympathy.

“I was actually talkin’ ‘bout payroll,” drawled Auralee. “Why do you really think my mom gave Will a raise?”

“Mmh.” Damian finished the rest of his second taco and ventured, “Cause she only likes skinny people?”

“No, y’fool.” She kicked the back of his seat. “She cut you because you refused to go snooping in my business, so if she bumped him up, it means he agreed to. Probably wants revenge cause I broke his little heart. Tell you what, you and I’re gonna have to have each other’s backs around that guy.”

***

The scale read 195, and although Christyn couldn’t see it, she could definitely feel it in bed--Damian must have put on the latest fifteen pounds in muscle mass as a result of his work at the bowling alley. His arms were rock solid when he held himself up on top of her, and she’d bet he had a full six-pack buried somewhere underneath a pillow of fat that was soft enough for her to fall asleep on if that was where she happened to lay her head. She was getting better at positioning herself underneath him so as to be able to take in his full length without pain, or maybe he was just getting better at getting her ready for him, and while he fucked her from on top, she loved running her fingers up and down the musculature of his back and shoulders almost as much as she loved wrapping her legs around his ample waist and squeezing the doughy, pliable love handles he’d developed.

His hands were rough from non-stop work, and they felt good against her skin as he kneaded and caressed the curves of her body, lovingly squeezing her where she was soft. They couldn’t get enough of each other; it seemed every moment they were home together was spent having sex, sex, sex.

On the 21st of June, she worked a double, just as she had on her birthday for the last eight years. She had expected the occasion to go unmarked, but when she got home, Damian was waiting up for her. “Hey babe, where you going so fast?”

“Bed,” she groaned. “Maybe a glass of champagne first, unless Auralee finished the case we bought last week, but I need to get off my feet, ASAP.”

“Don’t you want to open your present?” he asked, thrusting a bag into her hands as he followed her into the kitchen.

“Aww, you didn’t have to get anything for me,” she said, but smiled in spite of herself.

“Here, sit down, I bet you’re tired.” He pulled a chair out at the kitchen table for her and poured her the last glass of champagne in the fridge. Really, it was more like three-quarters of a glass. “I told Auralee to leave you some, and I guess this is her idea of ‘some.’ But maybe we could go out...I did get you something to wear.”

She pulled his gift out of its bag, a little confused at first. “Is this a sweater or a dress?” she muttered.

“The lady at the department store said it was a sweater-dress,” he said, his expression shifting with concern. “Sorry if I don’t really know your style--”

“I love it!” she said. “I don’t really know a lot about fashion, but it’s really pretty, and the knit’s so soft. I’m gonna try it on right now,” she said, and ducked into the bathroom despite her exhaustion.

The dress was amazing, hugging her curves in black angora down to her mid-thigh. She didn’t really own any shoes that would match, but she found some suede stiletto boots of Auralee’s in a closet down the hall that fit nicely and did her muscular calves a little more justice than they did Auralee’s rail-thin legs. She touched up her hair and lipstick and returned to the kitchen. “What do you think?”

Damian didn’t have to answer; the awestruck expression and the flush rising in his face said it all.

“I called and reserved us a table at a bar close to here, if you want to go,” he said, “but if you’re too tired from work then I’ll call and cancel.”

“No, let’s go!” Christyn insisted. Though she was spent from work, she didn’t want to deny him the chance to make her happy, especially since he had put so much deliberation into giving her a special night.

The bar was about six minutes up the road and it was packed, but the hostess had a private booth in the back ready for them. At long last, Christyn collapsed into the booth on the same side as Damian, letting herself sink against the upholstery and the soft warmth of his body.

Their waiter was a rotund, late-twentysomething white guy, which didn’t surprise her. One drawback to living in an upscale neighborhood in an outskirt town was that it was populated almost homogeneously by white conservatives, who all seemed to assume she was likewise a conservative, presumably because she was white-passing, and if they found out she owned a pistol, it was over. It happened all the time at the hotel now that she was open carrying behind the bar. Luckily, she was at a bar she’d never been to, and didn’t anticipate getting into a political discussion with any of the staff.

“Good evening, y’all, my name’s Brian and I’ll be your server, is there any special occasion y’all are celebrating tonight?”

Christyn wouldn’t have said anything, but Damian spoke first. “Yeah, it’s my girlfriend’s birthday, can you bring her a bottle of your best champagne?”

“A very special night indeed, then! Although every day is a special occasion with such a beautiful companion. If I could please see both your IDs?”

“Actually, house champagne is fine,” she said, surrendering her ID. “And he’s not drinking, but you can bring him a sweet tea with two creamers.”

She didn’t like the interested look the server gave her, or the dismissive glance he threw Damian’s way, as he left the table, promising to be right back with their drinks.

“What’s that guy’s problem?” asked Damian. “You should have let me buy you the expensive one. Shown him I can take care of a lady like you deserve.”

“Don’t be insecure,” she reassured him. “He’s probably a racist lunatic, anyway.”

Putting the encounter out of her mind, she enjoyed a glass of champagne while telling Damian about her day, cashiering at the science museum in the morning and closing the hotel bar at night. He in turn told her about his opening shift with Beans, and his trip to the mall with Auralee, with whom he’d had to consult on Christyn’s dress size. Auralee had bought him dinner at the food court in the mall, but even though it had been at least a thousand calorie affair for him (and a three-craft-cocktail disaster for Auralee, who had nearly busted a tire running over a curb on the way home), he was still hungry enough to put away two packs of instant ramen before Christyn returned from work.

“I’m not surprised; your daily maintenance calories must be through the roof if Beans works you as hard as you say she does.”

“Is that why I’ve been stuck at 195 for three weeks now?”

“Aww...Damian…”

She understood now why he’d been so upset before by one little look by the waiter. It was envy he was experiencing.

“Look, I know you’ve set yourself a goal.” It wasn’t something she readily understood, having had more or less the same body since she was 16, with no inclination to change it in either direction, but she wanted to be empathetic. “And while I know I’ll be thrilled to have a little more of you once you break this plateau, I’m really digging on 195. You’re nice and soft, but also so sturdy and powerful…” She wrapped an arm behind him and let her other hand come to a rest on his wonderfully squishy gut. “You’ve gotten so nice and plump in such a short time, too--fifty-five pounds in less than a year is nothing to scoff at; you should be proud of your progress. Look, see how you’ve already buried your hipbones?” Her hands moved lower to squeeze him through his clothes where his juicy love handles met his hips and the tops of his widened thighs.

“Mmmh, careful, Christyn.”

“See how I couldn’t feel your ribs if I tried? But it’s not just about the weight. In these last few weeks, you’ve made me incredibly happy. I just want you to be as happy as I am.”

He pulled her close, and she could feel him settling deeper into a state of relaxation with her every word. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “See, this is why I love you, Christyn.”

Ah, that dreaded L word. She avoided it like the plague herself, always wondering when the next disaster would strike, but in that moment, she thought to herself, why not just come out and say it? Even if she held her tongue for another hundred years, it wouldn’t change the fact that she felt it anyway. But before she could speak, the waiter returned to the table, setting down a piece of apple pie with ice cream on top in front of her. “For the birthday girl.” He gave her a wink.

“Thanks.” She didn’t look at the waiter, instead turning to Damian, spoon in hand. “Split this with me, baby? If I know you, you’ve got room for dessert…” She spooned a bite into his mouth and made no secret of her delight in watching him eat it. The little sigh of pure pleasure he let slip from the simple act made her instantly wet. She caressed his thigh and watched him intently, giving him an encouraging little mm-hmm, as he swallowed, his eyes fluttering shut.

“So good, Chrissy.”

When she glanced into the aisle again, the waiter had gotten rid of himself.

Fifteen minutes later, she was ready to go home. Damian called for the tab, upon which the waiter informed them that he’d rung up the house champagne, but served them the nice champagne. Dessert was comped, and the total after tax came out to eighteen bucks and change. “Thanks, bro, here, all yours,” said Damian, handing him the checkbook.

“Are you sure you don’t want your change? There’s a hundred here.”

“Yeah, and it was gonna be two hundred, but you spent all night checking out my date.”

“You’re...you’re too kind, Sir,” said the waiter, and left the table looking ashamed.

Christyn stoppered the bottle and took it home, where she split it with Damian before dragging him to bed. There, she undressed him slowly, teasing, squeezing, stroking, kissing, and licking every inch of skin from his neck to his groin until he was a writhing, begging mess. Only then did she mount him, riding him slowly at first, picking up speed until she was fucking him so hard that at the exact moment of his completion, the box spring broke through the bottom of the bed frame.


	21. TWENTY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter for non-consensual weight gain and graphic depictions of substance addiction.

Part 4. High Crimes and Misdemeanors

**TWENTY**

There was a good reason Damian had decided early on to set a cap at 230. From the beginning, he had suspected that if he went through with this gaining thing, he’d get addicted to it and wouldn’t want to stop, and it looked like that day had come. He had become mildly obsessed with seeing the number on the scale go up, each new pound sending a euphoric high through his brain. He imagined he felt how Christyn felt as she watched the numbers in her bank account skyrocket.

But then, where did it end?

Christyn was right, and as he dressed in the mirror the next morning, he thought to himself that 195 wasn’t a bad place to be. He had a good life. He ate whatever he wanted, had a job where he was respected, at least by his direct superiors, and a beautiful woman who adored him in his bed every night. And when it came down to it, he was happy with his body, and his progress. 55 pounds in a year was certainly impressive. Maybe he deserved to take a break; just enjoy life and let the numbers do what they would.

When he came downstairs, it was to the delicious aromas of Christyn’s cooking. She was in the middle of a conversation with Auralee, so he was glad he’d gotten dressed.

“Your boy told me he was stuck at 195,” Auralee was saying, which made him a little irate. When he’d told her that fact at work, it was in the hopes that she’d sympathize with him, being a feeder herself. Would he find out next that she’d been telling everybody at the bowling alley about his sex life?

He lingered outside the kitchen for a minute to listen in.

“Yeah, he and I had a talk about it last night. He seems to be feeling better about it now.”

“Oh? Then he should have told me before I wrote this week’s schedule.”

“What’s up with my schedule?” he asked, starting to worry as he walked inside.

Auralee got up from her seat at the table and handed him a copy of the new schedule. “I’ve taken you off of Sabine’s shifts and put you on mine. That way you’ll have a chance to relax, and get your gaining back on track. Does that sound good to you?”

“Don’t you think that’s a little inappropriate, as his manager?” said Christyn.

Normally Damian would agree, but then Auralee shot Christyn a smirk: “Ooh, someone’s getting a little possessive of her feedee!” And he thought it was kind of hot to see Christyn defending her title as his feeder, forgetting everything else. “So, Damian, what do you say?”

“I...um...I guess it’s alright,” he said. “I don’t really mind working with Beans, though. She has all the busy shifts, and I’m liking the money.”

“No kidding, Mr. ‘Let Me Leave a 400% Tip Just to Be a Show-Off,’” Christyn interjected.

“Trust me, you’ll be making plenty of money,” said Auralee. “Instead of Sabine, I have you barbacking while I serve my special clients.”

A grin broke across his face as he remembered his first conversation with her. “You mean the ones that tip hundreds of dollars a night?”

“The very ones,” said Auralee. “You’ll be making more money than ever, for a fraction of the work.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Aura?” said Christyn.

“More money for less work? What could be bad about that?” asked Damian. “Anyway, what’s for breakfast?”

***

Sabine was less than thrilled when she showed up for her evening shift. “What the fuck is this?” she asked, thrusting her copy of the schedule under Auralee’s nose. “I’m off the reservations, and I’m stuck with Will? Just tell me what I’m being punished for so I can stop this from happening again.”

“This isn’t a punishment. Take a walk with me, Beans.” Auralee led her out through the back door, leaving Damian to man the bar alone. He only had one customer, a regular named Courtney who worked at the vet clinic across the street and came in to practice and have a few drinks after she got off.

“Damian! It’s good to see you!” she chirped as she bounded up to the bar. “Mind making me one of your famous old fashioneds?”

Courtney was an attractive girl, her bright blue eyes the centerpiece of a round, kind face framed by light blonde, curly hair. She had curvy hips and a prominent chest that balanced her slightly pudgy middle. She flirted with Damian every time she came, even though she knew he was taken. In fact, he had been experiencing no shortage of female attention even as his weight climbed. If anything, he was receiving even more from the kind of girls he found attractive--ones with some meat on their bones, that is. Auralee had said to him that he’d ‘always been a good-looking young man,’ but that back when he was slimmer, big girls probably found him ‘hot, but unattainable,’ whereas now he was ‘much more approachable-looking.’ When he mentioned he’d gotten quite a few come-ons from thin women as well, Auralee had proposed that they might have been FFAs--female fat admirers, or maybe it was just that he was a charming guy who made an excellent old fashioned.

“Anything to eat today, Courtney?” he asked as he handed her drink to her.

“Who’s cooking?”

“Girard. Zeke should have been in by now, but you know him, he gets here when he gets here.”

“In that case, start me a tab, and I’ll come back when Zeke arrives. That man knows how to use his spices!”

He swiped her card to start her tab, and she handed him a ten dollar bill. “Put that in your pocket and don’t tell Auralee,” she said before making her way out into the lanes.

He was about to do it, but then Auralee’s older brother Ashton walked into the bar and he threw it in the tip jar to pool. Ashton didn’t seem to recognize Damian, but Damian remembered him as the psychiatrist from juvie. They used to call him ‘the Xan man,’ due to his generosity when it came to handing out prescriptions. “Tell my sister these are for her,” he said, and left a couple of scripts on the counter before departing.

When the girls returned, Sabine stepped behind the bar and approached him with a guilty look on her face. “Damian, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you’re the best barback I’ve ever had in this dump, and I’m sorry if I’ve been working you harder than you’d like me to be.”

“It’s been no trouble,” said Damian. Sure, working with her left him sore all over, out of breath, and starving, but it was a point of pride for him that he could keep up with her when nobody else could.

“You don’t have to lie to me; I’ve been a horrible supervisor. The truth is, I care about you as a friend, Damian, but sometimes the worst of me comes out and I end up treating you more like an appliance. I know you have a life outside of work, and...aspirations, that maybe don’t mesh well with the pace I keep on shift. Auralee says I can have you back in a month, and when that time comes, I promise to go easier on you. But until then…” She clapped him on the shoulder and cracked a small smile. “I’m really gonna miss you, dude.”

“Hey, we can still hang out outside of work,” said Damian.

“You’re right! And now you’ll probably have more time to socialize anyway, and maybe catch up on your reading and work on your art.”

Damian scoffed. “You’re the first person to call what I’m doing ‘art.’ Are you sure you’re not a closet feeder?”

“I meant your sketches, dumbass. Your girlfriend says they’re pretty good.”

“You talk to Chrissy?”

“Yeah, I got her number while we were all at Sapphire.”

“In that case, I bet Chrissy would love to have you and Zeke over for dinner and drinks.”

“M-me and Zeke?” Sabine repeated, her cheeks flushing.

About that time, Auralee came back in, found her scripts, and said, “Damian, it’s time to go. The pharmacy closes at 5 today.” She emptied the tip jar, gave him his half, and off they went.

***

Damian took the first opportunity he could to invite Sabine over. It was one of those rare nights when Christyn had the evening off. She was happy to entertain, putting together a whole three-course menu: a charred, creamed brussels sprout dip with homemade crackers and mojitos to start, made lovingly with agave instead of simple syrup, followed by shrimp and crawfish over elbow pasta in a cajun spiced cream sauce with whole roasted garlic cloves, basil and baby tomatoes paired with a California sauvignon blanc, and for dessert, dark chocolate mousse, with something called ‘limoncello’ over ice to drink. As she was prepping, he played taste-tester, delighting in the flavors of everything she spooned into his mouth. It was all so delicious...if he could get her to cook like this every day, even his sweatpants would need replacing before too long.

“I thought you were a vegetarian,” he said.

“I make an exception for shellfish, because I can clearly tell what they are,” she explained. “My qualm with meat isn’t a humanitarian or a moral one. I know there isn’t any ethical consumerism under capitalism, and my vegetables hurt poor farmers just as much as factory livestock farming hurts animals and the environment. It’s just a matter of wanting to know for sure what I’m putting in my body. Beef, pork, chicken, and even fish--anything that I can’t see whole on the plate, I don’t trust. If the whole chicken is on the table, or the whole fish, I can let my guard down, but if it’s served in pieces, I don’t want it, and anything ground, like a burger patty--just forget about it. It’s too easy to be faked out. Someone might serve you a whole human being and you’d never know.”

“Dark, but okay.” By now, he was used to Christyn going off on a weird dark tangent, and he didn’t let it put a damper on his mood.

Sabine arrived at about 5 PM, the telltale roar of her motorcycle engine and Christyn’s car alarm announcing her presence. Christyn rushed out and tended to Carolaine before embracing Sabine at the door. “Sabine, it’s such a pleasure to welcome you into our home! Come in, have a drink, Damian’s been dying to have you in!”

They all mingled over cocktails before Christyn sat them down at the dining room table and served dinner. Sabine was particularly fond of the dip, even after Christyn confessed it to be the most calorie-laden thing on the menu, beating out even dessert. Damian of course enjoyed his meal, but he pushed his plate toward the center of the table after only one helping, which seemed to startle Sabine. “Are you feeling well?” she asked. “Christyn has put out a delectable spread, and I know you usually like to eat.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I actually wanted to focus on you, ask how you were doing. Have you talked to Zeke?”

At the mention of the subject she had been avoiding, she reddened and fiddled with the tablecloth. “Yes, we talk every shift we work together. He’s the only one keeping me truly sane in that hellhole.”

“Yeah, but have you talked to him, about how you confessed your love to him at the bar?”

“Oh, please. I said that under pressure. I had just been accused of sleeping with the defendant on the witness stand; I needed to deflect.”

“But you meant it, didn’t you?”

“Even if I did, what would it matter? He’s got three other women on his dick, two of whom are in law school, and I’m 23 and already a service industry lifer. I’ll never be good enough for a guy like Zeke. Besides, I’m a Mathison.”

“What does that mean?” asked Damian, while Christyn poured Sabine more wine.

Sabine didn’t answer the question, just chucked back her wine. When she put her glass down, her face was wrought with some unspeakable shame.

“Look, Beans.” Christyn stood up from her chair and gave Sabine’s shoulder a squeeze. “I talk to Ezekiel on the regular. I hear how your name comes up again and again, and I know he’s quite fond of you. He couldn’t care less what you do for a living, and any man who does isn’t worth your time.”

“Yeah, and who your family is, whatever they did!” Damian cut in. “What matters is who you are.”

“What, a belligerent bar wench with no prospects and an aggravated assault charge?” said Sabine.

Damian hadn’t known about the charge...but he understood, and wasn’t surprised. He knew how easy it was to catch a case around here, firsthand.

“Or a strong, beautiful woman, who’s fearless and grabs life by the balls, but has enough sense to admit when she was wrong and that she’s sorry,” he pointed out.

“I know Zeke can spread himself a little thin when it comes to the ladies,” Christyn added, “but if you want to be his number one...well, the first step is asking.”

Sabine smiled. “Thanks, guys.”

“Our pleasure. Now, I think we’re all ready for dessert!”

After Sabine had left, Damian asked Christyn if she knew anything about the Mathisons, but she shook her head.

“I assumed you might; she is your coworker.”

A few shifts later, Zeke and Sabine both arrived late, together, in Zeke’s car, just as he and Auralee were getting off for the day. He didn’t have time to ask them any questions, but they both looked happier than he had ever seen them.

***

It was a slow Sunday with one reservation on the books for a table in the restaurant area (party of two, arriving at 8 PM, last name Huebner), although Auralee had given Damian the strange instruction not to say the word ‘reservation’ in front of the couple when they came.

“Mister always does it like this,” she had explained. “About twice a month he acts like he made a reservation at some high-end restaurant, then fakes like the reservation got lost or canceled somehow, and takes the Mrs. here as a ‘last resort.’” It all sounded a bit suspicious, but who was Damian to question his manager’s orders when there was money on the line? He could ask her about it after they got tipped.

Apparently, this was one of those thousand-dollar parties she had told him about the first time they had met.

An hour before the Huebners were set to come in, she handed Damian a bottle of pills, a mortar and pestle, and a blue plastic cup. “Crush these up and put the powder in here,” she told him, and then, once he was done, she had him repeat the process with a different bottle of pills and a red plastic cup. He guessed these were the pills her brother had written the fake scripts for, and he had so many questions on his mind, but Auralee kept him too busy to commit them all to memory for later, having him preset the tables in the dining room with appetizer plates, silver, and even tablecloths that reached the floor and citrusy-smelling little candles. “See, if I just set one table, it looks like I was expecting them, and Mrs. might catch on. But Mister pays good money for my service, so I want to make the place look presentable,” she said. “Now, I’ve given Zeke and Girard the night off; I usually like to cook for these reservations, which means you’ll be handling the service end.”

“Don’t we have a server on tonight?”

“Yes, but I need her in the lanes, and if she’s out there, my table in here won’t get the most attentive service.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard if it’s just one table.”

“That’s the spirit.” She led the way back behind the bar and checked the time on her phone. “Five minutes to showtime. You know, Christyn used to like to take a shot with me before this sort of service. Are you game?” Before he could answer, she had already poured two generous shots of vodka, and he didn’t want to be rude, so he drank with her even though it burned all the way down.

Soon the Huebners arrived, and Damian found himself mesmerized as Auralee greeted them at the door and showed them to a table. These people were dripping with wealth; he could see it in the easy grace with which the husband carried himself. He wore an untroubled smile, along with a tailored gray suit, a medium blue tie, and a very nice watch. His salt-and-pepper hair was parted to the side, making him look distinguished. Damian guessed he was 20 years older than his wife, a beautiful brunette with her hair sprayed into elegant curls and a luxurious fur coat on over a blue satin dress. Her round face, wide eyes, and full, pink lips reminded him of angels in old paintings.

“Well, hello, you two, what a surprise!” Said Auralee, shaking the man’s hand as Damian pulled the lady’s chair out for her.

“It’s a surprise for us, too,” said the lady. “Apparently, McCarthy’s lost our reservation. But you always take such good care of us. Last time we were here...well, I barely remember it, which means we must have had fun! Speaking of which, have you come up with any new drinks?”

“I think I can make you one or two that you’ll enjoy. Now as far as dinner goes, have you any special requests?” said Auralee, looking now to the man.

“Just work your magic, as always,” he said.

“I’ll try my best. Oh, this is Damian, he’ll be taking care of you,” said Auralee, but Damian was a little preoccupied watching the wife take off her coat and place it on the back of her chair along with her bag.

It was hard for him not to steal a glance at her amazing cleavage, with the low cut of her dress putting it right on display. The rest of her body was just as fantastic. She had round shoulders, soft arms, wide hips, and a great ass that spilled an inch or two out of her seat in either direction. Her stomach was small compared to her curvy hips and impressive breasts, but round enough to put some strain on the material of her dress and soft enough to spill slightly into her lap when she sat.

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there appreciating her, but apparently, it was too long, because Auralee felt the need to snap her fingers right in front of his face.

“Yeah, it’s like Auralee said, if you need anything just let me know and I’ll take care of it,” he said to the couple before following Auralee to the back.

“Give me three minutes on the timer,” she said, dropped something in the fryer, and set to work on the drinks. “He drinks merlot,” she said, pouring a glass of red wine. “And this is for the lady.” She threw some liquor and ice into a shaker, along with a little of the powder she’d had him grind into that blue cup earlier, and--what was that, egg white? She gave it all a vigorous shake, strained it into a flute, and topped it off with champagne. The result was a pinkish cocktail with a thick, pretty foam on top that rose about an inch out of the glass but did not spill.

“What’s in that?”

“Gin. Simple syrup. Raspberry liqueur. OJ, a little bit of egg, a little bit of sleeping pills, not enough to knock her out, but enough to relax her and possibly induce acute memory loss. Oh, and champagne. Now run those really quick and come back for the appetizer.”

That drink sounded like it would have Mrs. Huebner feeling pretty good by the time she finished it. He ran the drinks and informed the couple that their appetizer would be out shortly. When he returned to the service well, Auralee was plating six deep-fried balls of something on top of globs of a creamy orange sauce. She sprinkled the plate with some parsley and shredded parmesan. “Fried mac and cheese balls with chipotle aioli, off the menu,” she explained as she handed him the plate.

He brought it to the table and as he said what it was, the woman squirmed in her seat. “It looks so good...oh, every time I come here, I wreck my diet.”

“You and your ridiculous diet,” said her husband. “Son, tell my wife here that she looks ravishing.”

Damian felt a little awkward about complimenting another man’s wife while he was seated right at the table...but what could he do? He’d been asked, explicitly. He turned to Mrs. Huebner and said, “You have a great figure, Ma’am. That’s a lovely dress, too, and it brings out all of your best features. You shouldn’t be afraid to enjoy yourself once in a while.” He hoped he hadn’t made it too obvious that he had been checking her out earlier.

“Have you got a wife, boy?” asked Mr. Huebner.

“I...I have a girlfriend.”

“And is she a skinny little toothpick of a girl, or is she a real woman?”

Damian was starting to feel very awkward. Instead of answering, he said, “Look at that, your drinks are running low. Let me get you some more from the bartender. Anyway, enjoy the food!” before scuttling back to Auralee.

She was already pouring another glass of red wine for the man. “You can make Mrs. Huebner’s next drink. This is, after all, your specialty.” She passed him a short glass with a lemon, a few raspberries, a cube of sugar, and some of the powder from the red cup. “Make it like you make an old fashioned, but pour this instead of bourbon, and use the orange bitters instead of the angostura.” She placed a bottle of clear liquor in front of him. The label said moonshine.

“More sleeping pills?” he asked as he started to muddle the fruit.

“No, this one’s gonna be spiked with an appetite stimulant.”

Damian had been trying to wait until the service was over with, but he couldn’t hold off asking any longer. “Auralee, what’s going on?”

“Mr. Huebner is a simple man. He likes his meat medium rare and his women nice and plump. Unfortunately, his wife is obsessed with trying to lose weight, so he’s been employing me to help him keep her well-fed and growing. Here, take another shot if it doesn’t sit well.” She poured them each some more vodka.

“Auralee, this is more than not sitting well. This is super rapey!”

“Not to mention a felony...look, I don’t really like it either. I would get in so much trouble for this if my father wasn’t who he is...but it pays well. Now, run the drinks, would you?”

Put on the spot, he didn’t know what to do except take another shot with her and follow her orders. Following round two of drinks was salad and bread rolls, and then, finally, burgers. Damian didn’t get to watch her cook them, but one of them appeared juicier than the other, and better put together, too, with mayo carefully spread to cover the entire inner surface of the top bun. Auralee stuck a toothpick with a little red flag on top into the second burger and said, “That one’s for her.”

Damian felt sick as he delivered the main course to the table. “Looks wonderful,” said Mr. Huebner, and his wife nodded in vigorous agreement.

“I really should get a box for this; I can’t believe how much I’ve already eaten tonight. But somehow I’m still hungry, and Auralee pours those drinks strong, so I guess I should have some solid food to hold ‘em down, right?”

“Of course you’re hungry, darling. You’ve been torturing yourself with that diet for weeks!”

This time, Damian had no comment; he just went back to the bar to take another shot with Auralee. He hated himself for what he was doing to this poor, unsuspecting woman. As attractive as he thought he was at her size, he had the common decency to know that if she was trying to lose weight, she should have her wishes respected. He tried to rationalize it, hoping maybe she was in on it, and that having her husband pretend to “secretly” fatten her up was some part of her own feedee fantasy--but if that was the case, Auralee would have just told him from the start, and they wouldn’t be standing behind the bar drowning their moral objections in alcohol together.

“Keep an eye on the table,” Auralee instructed him. “I can’t plate dessert until the entree plates have been cleared, and she should be finishing soon. These appetite stimulants act fast. Between you and me, they haven’t been cleared by the FDA yet, but the penal system has been using them to break up hunger strikes under the table,” she confessed.

“You mean they’ve been experimenting on--?”

“Your people, yes.”

Damian found it a little offensive to be lumped in with the prison population as ‘his people,’ but what could he say? Technically, he should have been incarcerated.

“I have some stronger ones that really only exist because there are freaks like us in the pharmaceutical industry,” confessed Auralee. “Those will likely never be cleared. But I tend to reserve them for more, ah, personal use? But only with a consenting man.” She glanced sideways at Mr. Huebner and said, “Tell me why the people who are like this have the deepest pockets?”

Another shot down for each of them.

He could barely stand to watch as Mrs. Huebner sat and ate like a zombie, getting dumber and drowsier and hungrier each minute the drugs coursed through her system. It was to his relief that the pair finally finished their dinner, even if he had to witness the man coaxing over half his own meal down his wife’s throat. He picked up the dishes, threw them in the sink in back, and returned a final time to Auralee to pick up dessert.

“What’s the ice cream laced with?” he asked, slurring his words a bit as she handed him a glass bowl on a thick stem with two spoons, full to the brim with a golden-yellow and berry-red ice cream sundae dressed heavily with whipped cream.

“Nothing, it’s just ice cream. Raspberry French vanilla. I make it here,” said Auralee. “You can have a scoop once you drop that off. You can have a piece of pie, too. And make sure and don’t drop that bowl; it’s expensive and my mother will kill us both!”

He didn’t linger at the table for any longer than necessary after dropping off dessert, but it was enough to catch all the unsettling details. How Mrs. Huebner’s dress pulled uncomfortably tight around her distended middle; how she shook her head gently but was too weak to fight back as her husband began spooning ice cream into her mouth.

“I’ll handle dropping the check, you just worry about the dishes,” said Auralee. “You did great tonight for your first special service, kid.” She fixed him a plate of dessert to eat in the back while he worked. The pecan pie was horrible, the taste of butter way too overwhelming in the crust. Not for the first time, he suspected that maybe she just didn’t know how flavors worked anymore. The ice cream was actually quite good, but the events of the night had put him off his appetite, so after a couple of bites he left the rest of his plate outside the back door for the racoons.

After a few minutes, Auralee met him in the prep kitchen. “Mr. Huebner said you’re an excellent server,” she said.

“He can shove it up his ass. That was sick,” said Damian, scrubbing the grease off one of the entree plates. “I can’t believe I just did all that.”

“I get that you’re upset,” said Auralee. “But here’s your cut. Count it, and if you’re still unhappy, give it back.”

She thrust a thick wad of cash into his wet and soapy hands, and he fumbled to count it all up. He was full-swing drunk by now and was having a little trouble adding up the numbers, but if he wasn’t mistaken, it was $1200.

He shoved it in his pocket. “You said they come here twice a month?”

***

Damian was a wreck when he got home. Stressed and conflicted, he laid waste to the dinner Christyn prepared of eggplant parmesan over creamy tomato risotto, helping himself to two and a half heaping servings until he was stuffed well past his normal limit with rich, heavy food--ordinarily, he only overate until the first small twinges of pain in his stomach crept over him and enhanced the pleasure of being stretched full, but now, he was simply in downright pain. Food usually helped him when he was stressed, and by the time he was full, and still stressed, he thought maybe if he kept eating, eventually he’d feel better. He was wrong.

He realized he’d have to take a different approach to killing his guilt from the shift. Christyn was having a glass of red wine with dinner, so he decided to join her in drinking...only, he poured himself the rest of the bottle, and halfway through his third glass, he had to run to the bathroom and throw up, emptying his stomach’s contents into the toilet.

In a way, he was lucky to have a converted normie for a feeder. Christyn didn’t get mad or impatient with him for being sick. Instead, she took him to bed, got him a glass of water, and soothed him with gentle cuddles. It was times like this he appreciated that she was more concerned with his comfort than his weight. He wasn’t going to say anything about work, but then she said, “Aura had you work one of those reservations, didn’t she?”

It was then that he remembered she used to work his job, and she had been younger than he was when she started.

“You know how it goes, then,” he said.

“It was awful,” she said as she caressed his still-queasy stomach to help with the lingering nausea. “But it was either stay on the clock and do those awful things, or go back to being homeless. But hey, I can talk to Aura in the morning, see if she won’t put your schedule back the way it was.”

He thought about it for a minute before deciding, “You don’t have to.”

“But--?”

“Look, we both know it’s dirty work. But I’m probably not going to be a fugitive forever. It’ll help if I have some money saved up to cover the court costs I’m gonna have to deal with, and maybe I can even buy a car if I save up enough. Even if I don’t like it, she tips out good.”

“Once again, you’ve proven yourself quite mature for your age,” said Christyn. “If you’re sure, then I won’t say anything, but if you change your mind you just let me know and I’ll talk to her.”

The next few weeks were Hell for Damian, but they could have been a lot worse without Christyn to advise him.

Like when she gave him the heads-up about a customer named Molly McCready, who would come in with her girlfriend Ann expecting not only for Auralee to dope her up with additives to her food and drink, but would expect whoever was serving them to help forcefeed the woman by hand once she got complacent enough on the sleeping pills. Christyn hadn’t known how to get out of it at the time, so she’d helplessly gone along with it, but she told Damian what to say so that when the couple came in and Molly made her disgusting request halfway through service, he was successfully able to decline: “Sorry, Ms. McCready, but bare-hand food contact by the staff would be a violation of the Texas health code. I wish I could help you, but there’s rumors that the health inspector’s making his rounds, and I can’t put my job on the line. But maybe I can get you both another drink from the bartender?”

As the days passed by, he met a handful of wealthy perverts all fattening up their spouses with Auralee’s pharmaceutical help. Between courses, he took shots with Auralee.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if there didn’t already exist a demand for it,” she said.

Shot.

“And if it wasn’t me, someone else would be doing it.”

Shot.

“If someone’s gonna profit off these people, it might as well be us, right?”

Shot.

“And that’s capitalism for you. Bottoms up, kid.”

Even on the days when there were no reservations, he took to shooting liquor on the clock to kill the dread of the next time he’d have to drug someone up so their spouse could violate them through the stomach. Then, he’d come home, sweettalk Christyn into buying him a 6-pack of IPA, and slam that back too. He was waking up still drunk, feeling hungover by the time he got to work, and drinking again before noon to dull the headache.

One day Virtue Kingston strode into the bar while he was prepping some simple syrup for Auralee. He had yet to take his first midmorning drink and he was already irritated even before she slapped a piece of paper on the counter in front of him. “This was in the copier in the office. Is it yours?”

The document was titled, A Comprehensive List of Ways to Absolutely Wreck Your Metabolism As Quickly As Possible.

“What, so just because I’m the fattest guy at the bowling alley, we’re gonna assume it’s mine?”

It was obvious to him that it was Auralee’s, intended for her online feedee from California, who was flying in in a few days to visit her. But for some reason, probably spite, Damian felt compelled to torture Virtue a little. He picked up the document, made a show of reading it, and said, “Whoever wrote this is obviously planning some sort of revenge. Maybe they’ve gotten sick of your casual fat-shaming and constant criticism and finally decided to do something about it. Maybe they plan to slip appetite enhancers into your morning coffee, or better yet, maltodextrin. You know what maltodextrin does, don’t you?”

At her shocked silence, he went on, “It floods you with insulin so that every calorie you eat gets stored as fat on your body. Actually, maybe this person has already started putting their plan into action. That suit is looking kind of tight, Ms. Virtue.”

“Why...I should fire you right now for your insolence!”

“Should you?” He smirked. “Because maybe I switched the labels on the lines in the back and now I’m the only one who knows which is which. Or maybe I struck a deal with one of the mechanics so if anything happens to my job, service in the lanes gets fucked. Or maybe not, but is it really worth the risk?”

Of course, he hadn’t actually done any of these things, but it was worth it to see Virtue go white as a sheet and leave the bar without another word.

When he finally caught a day off, he thought he’d have a chance to breathe and relax a little, but as the day wore on, his hopes were shattered. He was on edge all day, pacing the house and unable to put his mind at ease. His stomach hurt, but not in a way that he associated with hunger or overfullness; rather, it was a sharp pain in the middle of his right side that came and went. By two in the afternoon, he was shaking, even though the weather had warmed up for the year.

Christyn came home from her lunch shift to find him sitting on the edge of the couch, shivering, his mind reeling. “Damian, baby, what’s wrong?”

“I--I don’t know, I…”

She sat down with him and wrapped her arms around him. He clung to her for dear life, feeling his eyes get hot and wet. “What did you do today?” she asked.

“Just a whole bunch of nothing.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Like half a bowl of cereal, but I’m not hungry and I don’t feel good.”

“Did you drink?”

“No.”

His answer seemed to have unlocked a realization in her. “Well, how much have you been drinking?”

He confessed to having been knocking back vodka all shift with Auralee before coming home to renew his buzz every night for the past three weeks. “You’re withdrawing,” she said.

She wiggled out of his embrace--he didn’t like that--but when she came back, she had a double shot of vodka for him, along with a cola to wash it down. He drank it in one pull despite the burning sensation in his throat and within a few minutes, the shakes stopped.

“Feel any better?”

“Definitely a little. Why does my stomach hurt?”

“For one, your liver’s experiencing a shock,” she explained. “You’ve been getting it used to working overtime and now it’s confused, since you haven’t given it any alcohol to process today. Which I guess is a lucky thing; even though you’re exhibiting signs of physiological addiction, the fact that you haven’t drank all day says that the psychological addiction hasn’t set in. It’s going to be a rough journey from the brink, but easier than it was for me.

“Secondly, alcohol withdrawal is a huge anxiety trigger, and what a lot of people don’t know about anxiety is it comes with a load of physical symptoms. Stomach cramps, headaches, the list goes on and on.

“And finally, any sudden change in your drinking is gonna affect your regularity.”

“My what?”

“It means you’re backed up with shit.”

“Lovely,” he said sarcastically.

“Listen, you’re going to be okay,” she said, plucking the shot glass from his hand. “I’m going to make sure of it. All you need to do is trust me.”

She let him get as drunk as he wanted that night, explaining that it was important that he taper off gradually, but starting in the morning, she would be rationing his alcohol intake. After a few more shots, he was relaxed enough to hold down dinner, and after that, she had no trouble getting him to bed and kissing and cuddling him to sleep.

***

The next day was Wednesday, the start of Christyn’s weekend, and rather than picking up at the last minute with the staffing agency, she stayed in bed with Damian for most of the morning, stirring in and out of wakefulness. At around seven, she called Auralee’s cell to inform her that Damian was taking a week off due to personal illness.

“You know she’s still home, right?” said Damian. “We don’t usually leave until 8.”

“Yeah, but I’m not ready to leave you just yet,” she said, nuzzled against him, and went back to sleep. It was easier to hold off the shakes with her warm little body pressed to his under the comforter, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Eventually, he started to feel a slight tremor in his hands, but he didn’t want to drink. Sure, it felt good to be drunk, but it felt even better to be curled up with the woman he loved, clear-headed and fully able to appreciate the moment.

There was one thing he did have to do, though. His appetite had returned with full force and as Christyn finally woke up entirely and asked how he was feeling, he held her close and confessed, “I don’t want to get up, and I don’t want you to get up, either, but I’m so hungry I’d probably eat a roll of printer paper if you put chocolate sauce on it.”

“Makes sense. You’re missing all the calories you’ve been getting from liquor. Stay right there, I’ll fix you something.”

“I can go with you, help you with the dishes,” he offered.

“No, baby. You need to be getting as much rest as possible right now and focusing on feeling better.” She pressed a sweet kiss to his temple, pulled on her PJs, and left the room.

She was back in fifteen minutes with pancakes with bananas in them, along with two glasses held expertly in one hand. One of them was just water, but the other was full of what looked like a thick chocolate milkshake. As she set breakfast on the nightstand for him, he snickered and said, “I would have thought weight gain shakes were more Auralee’s thing than yours, but I’ll take it.”

“That’s not what that is,” said Christyn after he had already taken a gulp. She could have fooled him, though. The stuff was delicious, and sure tasted like it was packed full of calories: sweet, smooth and creamy, with a definite bulk to it that he was sure would leave him pleasantly satisfied.

“What’s in it, then?”

“Chocolate, of course, to ease the withdrawals, and ice cream to make it all blend, but I also threw in some raw spinach and a whole avocado. You’ll be deficient in potassium and magnesium because of how much you’ve been drinking. This ought to set you right. And don’t forget to drink the water, too; you’re dehydrated.”

He could hardly believe it. She was basically medicating him, and she managed to make even that taste good. He must have saved a bunch of orphans from a burning school in a past life, or something.

The chocolate did help with his nerves, and the hunger pangs subsided once he’d put away every scrap of breakfast. Christyn cuddled back up to him in bed, just laying with him at first, but in about an hour she had him on his back for a little hard cardio.

“I thought you said I was supposed to be resting?” he said, breathing hard and spent as she rolled off of him, not that he was complaining.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist!” 

He soldiered through most of the day without alcohol, but by five, he was miserable again. Christyn served cocktails with dinner, and though he felt like he’d lost the battle once he downed his second, she told him, “You’re doing so good!”

When he was shooting vodka on the clock with Auralee, she explained, he was, by her estimation, up to twenty standard drinks per day. The previous day, she’d given him ten, and tonight, five. It could take several weeks for the withdrawal symptoms to fully subside, but from what she could tell, he was responding well to having his intake halved by the day. She had actually expected much more resistance on his part. According to her, if he continued to make progress the way he’d been doing, he’d be feeling mostly like himself again by the end of the week, right on schedule.

***

Christyn continued to monitor Damian closely on her next day off, but more for his comfort than her lack of trust. Even if she no longer had him brainwashed, he was obedient to her command and she didn’t suspect him of trying to sneak liquor while her back was turned. But he didn’t like to be left alone while he went through this rough time, so she remained dutifully glued to his side as often as possible.

Although it wasn’t her initial intention, attending to him gave her plenty of opportunities to feed him up. He reported feeling better and more in control of himself when he was full, so between mealtimes she whipped up snacks for him to shove in his mouth at his leisure, often straight out of the oven before she had the chance to apply frosting. Once, when he was doing this, she pouted and said, “You’re supposed to taste the pastry and the filling at the same time!” And with that, she squirted the cream filling into his mouth directly from the pastry bag.

“Holy shit, that was so hot,” he said once he’d swallowed.

“Want more?”

“Please, Chrissy.”

She pushed another pastry past his lips and filled his mouth up the rest of the way with cream. “Good, because I want more, too.” She gave the bottom of his belly an affectionate squeeze, smacked his ass (good God, it was jiggling so much these days), and kissed him hard on the lips when he was done chewing. Within seconds, he was hard as a rock and dragging her to the bedroom, which was good: if he was making passionate love to her, he couldn’t be drinking.

She was loving the effect all of her extra attention had on his frame. The added weight settled nicely around his waist, making his pudgy little muffin top even more delightfully squeezable. For the first time she noticed his chin beginning to double gently when he looked down, and she thought it was the most adorable thing in the world. His chest had softened on top of an impressive swell of muscle, and even his wrists, once upon a time so delicate, breakable-looking, even, were looking thick and pudgy these days. Eventually, she had to return to work, but she was pleased to find that after a few days, the weight was sticking. “I think we need to go shopping,” she said when she returned to him after her Sunday night shift, palming and kneading his yielding sides. “You’re spilling out of these pants, babe, and that shirt looks painted on.”

She had never been too concerned about the numbers, but apparently, he had decided to check them himself. The next time she looked at his blog, he had posted a picture of the scale reading 202, along with a shot of himself in the mirror, head cut out of the frame, giving his own ample midsection a squeeze. The caption:

My feeder is the best! I love her! 

She got out of work on Monday early enough to drive him to the mall, replace his wardrobe, and take him to get a long overdue haircut. He got it cut short in the back but left it curled and a little messy in front; it was nice.

That night, she met resistance with him in bed for the first time. It was entirely her fault. She was feeding him a slice of the key lime pie she’d made off a new recipe she had found online, when she was suddenly struck by how pretty his throat looked when he was swallowing a bite of food he particularly enjoyed, and she reached up with her free hand to stroke his neck when his whole demeanor changed and he suddenly recoiled, pulling her hand away. She thought it would be alright, since she knew he liked when she kissed him there, but apparently not.

“I’m sorry, baby!” she said. “Did I hurt you?”

“N-no.”

“Did I scare you?”

He clammed up. She felt horrible. She couldn’t read his mind, but she imagined she must have touched on a painful memory. Maybe someone had choked him in county jail? “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I just won’t do that again, okay?”

He relaxed underneath her and pulled her to him. “Thank you, Chrissy.”

“Forgive me?”

“Of course I do!” he said. “And for the record, I still like it when you cut off my air supply with these babies.” He squeezed one of her inner thighs and flipped her on her back.

***

On Tuesday, she watched the clock while he sat around in bed, propped up on pillows against the headrest, working on his art. She was particularly impressed with one sketch he did of Auralee, leaning over the bar with a vacant smile on her face, pouring into a cocktail shaker out of a bottle she seemed unaware was labeled with the universal symbol for poison. At precisely 4:03, she hugged him tightly and announced, “That’s twenty-four hours you’ve gone, bone-dry! I’m so proud of you, Damian!”

At around 6, her car alarm went off. She rushed out the door to check on Carolaine, and there on the doorstep were Zeke and a sheepish looking Sabine, making an unexpected house call. “Yo, heard Dame wasn’t feeling too well, so we wanted to swing by and give him our best,” said Zeke. “Also, Beans is messy as shit, and wants to know what’s up.”

“Zeke! Beans!” Damian rushed up behind Christyn and gave Zeke a high five, then pulled Sabine into a hug.

“Whoa! Auralee said you were sick. You’re not contagious, are you?” she snapped. “I swear to God, if you get me sick--!”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I’ve just been dealing with, um...alcohol withdrawals,” he admitted.

“Well, fuck us then, for not wanting to show up empty-handed,” said Sabine, pulling a bottle of whiskey out of her bag.

“It’s okay, he can have a little, as a treat. We’ll have to wait on dinner, though; I wasn’t expecting guests!” said Christyn as she hurried into the kitchen.

Zeke ducked in to help her out while Damian and Sabine caught up in the dining room. It reminded her of old times at the bowling alley, the two of them dividing the kitchen into stations and working with an effortless synchronicity. While Christyn chopped vegetables, Zeke put some rice on to boil, and soon, they had a stir-fry going.

“What do you think?” he asked as she sampled the rice once he’d spiked it with soy sauce, hot sauce, and some choice seasonings.

“Not bad.”

“Not bad? Come on, now, I’m an excellent chef when I’m not limited by the deep-fried slop we serve at Memorial Lanes.”

“I’ll concede, you have some skill. And is it just me, or is there a little more of Sabine lately?” It was a small difference, almost imperceptible at first. Ten pounds at the most--actually, probably closer to five, given Sabine’s short stature. But after encouraging Damian through his gain to date of over 60 pounds past his starting point (jail didn’t count, she had decided--140 was square one; 120 was ground zero), Christyn’s eye was trained, and if she looked closely, she could see that the second button of Sabine’s shirt and the seat of her jeans were more strained than the last time she’d seen her. “Developing a bit of a feeder side yourself, are you, Zeke?” she teased.

“Ain’t like that, you freak,” he said. “I just cook good, and if she happens to get a little thicker because of it, I don’t mind, is all. Means I’m loving her right.”

“Aww...you’re a great guy, Zeke. And a decent cook. But I think it’s clear who’s the talent in the room,” she said with a playful smirk. “Damian just tipped the scales at 202.”

“You know you have an unfair advantage if that’s how we’re gonna judge our skills,” said Zeke. “By the way, sorry to hear about his little drinking problem.”

“He doesn’t even have a drinking problem. He’s just been stressed out at work, having to do the things Aura has him do. I don’t even think he knows yet about the worst part...I feel like I should tell him, but I don’t know how.”

“How can you?” said Zeke. “Even if you told him, he wouldn’t believe you.”


	22. TWENTY-ONE

**TWENTY-ONE**

“Congratulations on breaking through your plateau,” said Auralee on the drive to work on Damian’s first day back.

“How’d you know?” he asked, surprised. His first thought was that Christyn had told her...but he hadn’t even told Christyn the final numbers yet. He’d been waiting to see if it was a sure thing: oftentimes, his weight would fluctuate by up to five pounds before settling on a set number. But it seemed this time it had at last decided to firmly stick at 200 or above. He had planned to break the news to Christyn tonight, but was it possible that she could already tell what his weight was just by looking or feeling? Or did Auralee just have that good of an eye?

“You put it on your blog, silly,” said Auralee. “By the way, that was quite a tasteful selfie you posted.”

“You follow my blog?”

“Yeah, it took me a while to figure out it was you, but then I recognized Chrissy’s jacket in one of your pictures and put two and two together.”

He took out his phone, logged in, and scrolled through his list of followers. “Aura-Fixation, that’s you?”

“Mhmm.”

He clicked on her blog link and had his eyes assaulted by the sight of several video previews of Auralee feeding different men of varied weights, some by hand and some with a funnel and tube, and in almost all of the videos, either she or her partner or both were naked or nearly so. He hit the back button and tried not to linger too long mentally on those images of his current manager.

“Holy shit, am I glad to see you behind the bar!” he said as he walked into the bowling alley to find Sabine making simple syrup.

“I missed you too, Damian,” she said with a smile.

“Good that you’re happy, Beans; I’ve been getting sick of hearing you complain about William,” said Auralee.

“You know his name Wilhelm, right?” said Zeke, coming out from the front kitchen.

Auralee shrugged. “Sometimes if a guy doesn’t have enough meat on his bones to hold my visual interest, I tend not to have the best memory for names.”

"Damn, that is cold, girl.”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, Zach.”

Damian couldn’t stifle his laughter, even if Zeke didn’t think that was funny.

Auralee left, promising to come pick him up when he got off before she had to return for her night shift. Sabine, true to her word, went a lot easier on him than he was used to. She still worked him at a fast pace and held him responsible for hauling and changing kegs, but she didn’t yell at him anymore, which made all the difference in the world. Midway through the morning, Beans started to get irritated with the workload, but rather than burden Damian with her ill temper, she started taking it out on the customers. She told one lady, “Wow, for $2 on a $70 tab you might as well strip the shirt off my back and wipe your ass with it!” Another man got, “Really? You’re gonna complain about the price of a soda and not even stick around for your change?” while she forcefully threw thirty-five cents at his back as he left. The crowning achievement, Damian felt, was her rebuttal to one old man who complained about her service and made some threats: “GO AHEAD AND LEAVE ME A BAD REVIEW! IF I HAVE YOUR NAME, I CAN FIND YOUR HOUSE!”

After the lunch rush, activity slowed down in the restaurant, and he, Zeke, and Beans were able to break together. Christyn had sent Damian to work with a container of pasta big enough to share with the other two, and they all came back on the clock in a good mood, satisfied and ready to work.

During the lull, Damian lingered at the corner of the bar, sketching on a piece of scrap paper, a bad habit he’d picked up while working with Auralee, who allowed him to relax now and again. “Oh my God,” he heard Sabine’s voice behind him, and he turned around feeling vulnerable, thinking he was in trouble for slacking off…

“I’m sorry!”

“No, I’m sorry!” said Sabine. “I never realized you were left-handed!”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Every time I’ve seen you try and shake a cocktail, you fail. But every time, you’re trying to use your right hand, like you’re copying me or Aura. Come here, make me a kamikaze, but hold the shaker with your left.”

He let her lead him to the well, her arm around his waist. “Wow, that Chrissy has made you bigger, hasn’t she?” she commented offhandedly. He flushed and struggled to conceal a smirk. He liked when other people noticed. “Now, show me what you’ve got!”

He made the drink, amazed at his own ability to hold the shaker together this time. Once he’d strained it into a glass, she downed it and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Hey there, handsome...when do you get off?

He turned around abruptly to see Christyn sitting at the bar.

“Chrissy? What are you doing here?”

“I had the day off, figured I’d save Auralee the drive. Plus, I wanted to make sure you were adjusting well on your first day back. And I wanted to give you a little something to tide you over until dinner. You know, I saw on the news this morning there’s been a string of deaths in the Memorial City area. It’s looking really similar to mad cow; people are experiencing acute psychosis and prolonged insomnia before they just drop. The CDC isn’t sure if it’s contagious, or if it is, whether it might be airborne, bloodborne, or food-borne, but I didn’t want to take any chances. Don’t worry, Beans, I brought enough for you guys to split. I know you like the green dip,” she said, sliding a couple of plastic containers across the bar.

Damian shuddered at the thought of some new freak disease spreading in the area, but he was glad to see Christyn, and relieved that he wouldn’t have to ride home with Auralee. That she hadn’t killed them yet was some kind of miracle.

“Chrissy! You’re gonna want to see this!” said Sabine. “Damian, make her a cosmopolitan.”

She had to recite him the recipe, but he poured all the ingredients into the shaker and was able to strain it neatly into the glass with ease. Christyn watched him with a funny expression, her eyes wide as she parted her lips, licked the bottom one, and bit down. Her cheeks had gone bright pink and she seemed frozen, almost mesmerized, as he set the drink down in front of her.

“Well, taste it!” said Sabine.

At last, Christyn took the glass by the stem and sipped. “It’s good, it’s a good drink,” she said quietly. Damian realized a little late that she had been watching his gut jiggle while he worked the cocktail shaker. His pulse sped up both with pride that she liked what she saw, and anticipation of what would happen as soon as they got in her car at the end of his shift.

***

Satisfied that Damian was adjusting well to his return to work, Christyn clocked in for her own Friday morning shift at the hotel bar feeling calm and relieved. It was her and Topher today, with him working a double and Sten coming in to relieve Christyn at 4 PM. They didn’t have a barback--Robert and Sylvia were too cheap to hire one--but when there was more than one bartender scheduled, one of them usually took the backup role and they all pooled tips. Topher always insisted on being the one to restock and change kegs while Christyn and/or Sten talked to customers, despite Christyn being faster, his reasoning being that ‘pretty girls always get tipped better.’

She was having a good morning until about the mid-shift, no food sent back, every customer satisfied with their beverage. Then, after she finished serving a second round of margaritas to a pair of ladies sitting at one of the tables in the bar area, Natalie Walker, that idiot, turned around without looking and hit her in the ribs, hard, with a cocktail tray. “Might want to watch where you’re standing, Chrissy.”

Might want to watch where you swing that thing! Christyn wanted to rebuke, but she was in pain and could only manage a hissed intake of breath.

The pain didn’t subside as the shift wore on, just kept throbbing in her side. When Esteban made a pass through the bar, he stopped and gasped when he saw her bent over with one hand braced against the liquor cabinet under the bar and the other pressed to her aching ribs. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t know. I can still stand up, but I might need to file worker’s comp.”

“Don’t let the owners hear you say that, they’ll fire you like a shot! I’d hate to lose you, you’re the best here at what you do.”

“Yeah, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. We’re both too good for this dump.”

His lips pursed into a thin line. “Take a breather, Chrissy. You can sit on the bench outside. Here, take a cigarette.” He passed her one out of his personal stash and she took it, even though she had her own.

“Topher, take the front for me?”

Topher nodded, and she stepped out.

The smoke helped calm her nerves, even if every inhalation sent a new wave of pain through her side. If she had to guess, one or more of her ribs were fractured. She touched the area gingerly through her shirt with the tips of her fingers and felt a definite swelling, but nothing seemed misaligned.

It frustrated her, how afraid Esteban was of their employers. He was a good chef and a decent manager, aside from his habit of simpering and sucking up to the boss. Richmond was a smaller town than Houston, but surely job prospects weren’t terribly limited for either him or herself. She wondered, did Robert and Sylvia have dirt on him?

As she stared out into the parking lot in thought, a shiny dark gray Camaro pulled into a parking space. It was the kind of car that would have impressed someone who cared more about cars; as it were, Christyn only noticed it because it was parked dangerously close to her own old Fiat. Fortunately, the driver had the good sense not to scratch her paint as he opened the door to get out…

“Oh my God...Alex?”

Standing up shot a fresh jolt of pain through her side, but she had to see him. Meeting him halfway out in the parking lot, she appraised him with her eyes, wincing. He looked exhausted and he had lost some weight, but it didn’t look like healthy weight loss. He looked gaunt, malnourished, not unlike Damian after each jail stint. “Oh, dear Lord...I never thought I’d see you again!” She placed both hands on his shoulders, giving a light squeeze which her injury protested.

“You alright there?”

“I’m fine, a waitress hit me with a tray, Jesse’s done worse. What are you doing here?”

“I heard you were working down here, so I thought I’d swing by, catch up a little--Jesus Christ, is that a gun?”

She froze. “Who told you I was here?”

“Some hot redhead I met at industry night at the Sapphire. I would have got her name and number, but she was obviously too drunk, and all over some fat rando, too--”

“Auralee!” said Christyn. “That’s my roommate. I’ll be having a talk with her about throwing my name around.” Alex was Jesse’s cousin, and it was a lucky thing for Christyn that they hated each other. If Auralee had happened to let her name slip to someone who knew Jesse and liked him...she shuddered at the possibilities. “But come in! Let me fix you a drink!”

He followed her in, sat down, and ordered a skinny margarita.

“Let me buy you lunch, too,” she insisted, keeping to herself that he looked like he needed it. “How does grilled chicken sound?” she asked.

“It sounds great...but you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. I feel horribly about the way I left things off.”

“I completely understand,” he said as she rung in his meal. “You couldn’t stick around with Jesse knowing where you lived.”

“Are broccoli and roasted potatoes on the side okay, or do you want something else?”

“No broccoli. They can double the potatoes, though.”

She rolled her eyes. “Still picky about the vegetables, I see. Well, it looks like you’ve been doing well without me, that’s a nice set of wheels out front.”

He laughed bitterly. “Thanks. Worst financial decision I’ve ever made. I thought I could hold down the car note and the lease, working at McCarthy’s, but I lost the lease not too long after they fired me.”

“They fired you?”

“Yeah, I thought I’d made a good sale on the sashimi grade ahi tuna steak--”

“Oh, honey. The ahi at McCarthy’s was never sashimi grade as long as I worked there.”

“Yes, I know. And they know. And so did the customer I was trying to impress. Turns out it was a famous food critic. The restaurant got slammed in his scathing review for ‘sub-par food’ and ‘deceitful waitstaff’...he put my whole name in it and everything. I’m as good as blackballed in the industry.”

“That’s terrible,” said Christyn. “What kind of person goes out of their way to ruin the life of a waiter? I mean, how petty can you get?”

The bell in the kitchen signaled her to come pick up her order. She retrieved Alex’s plate from the window (it hurt to walk, it hurt to breathe) and set it in front of him. “So, where you been staying at these days?”

“In the Camaro.”

“Jesus!” She reached for her phone in her right apron pocket, a movement that caused her to wince in pain. “Let me text my roommates and ask if I can let you crash at my place, at least until you get back on your feet, but I’m sure it’ll be okay, we have plenty of space.”

“What? You don’t have to go through the trouble--”

“Oh, don’t put on the whole ‘I don’t want to impose’ act. You came here to ask me for a roof, I know it. You can’t fool me, Mr. Master of Bullshit.” And even if he said he didn’t fault her for it, she couldn’t bring herself to turn him away after the way she disappeared.

With no objections from Damian or Auralee, Christyn had Alex follow her home at the end of her shift. He was too exhausted to move his things from the car, and Christyn too badly injured, so they left everything in the backseat for the moment. “Damian and Auralee should be home from work shortly, I should start dinner.”

“Not in your condition,” said Alex. “You could barely work a register, let alone a frying pan. What do you want to order for delivery?” he asked, taking out his phone while she collapsed onto the living room sofa.

“Chinese?” she ventured. He made a face. “What?”

“All that MSG.”

“Right, ‘cause salt is fine to eat unless it’s being cooked into food by Asian people.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that I’m trying to take it personally.”

“Wait, you’re Asian?” he said.

“Half. Why does that surprise you?”

“I just always thought Asian women--”

“Work in nail salons? Eat dogs? Have sideways vaginas?” she rattled off. She’d heard every stereotype and bad joke in the book, which was why when people asked her ‘where she was from,’ anymore, she just said, Beaumont, TX.

“No, nothing like that. It’s just...well, all the Asian chicks I know are quite, well, thin.”

“Then what has you so afraid of a little MSG?”

“Does it have to be Chinese?”

“Yes, dammit!” She dug her debit card out of her purse and threw it across the room at him. “I’m in pain and all I want is some fucking Chinese food!”

“Okay, okay, what do you want?” he asked, dodging the card and picking it up off the floor where it landed.

“Grilled eggplant, for sure! An order of veggie egg rolls...a thing of fried rice, some lo mein noodles...oh, get some beef and broccoli, too, Damian loves that, and whatever you want, of course. Oh, and some crab Rangoon.” That last one was for Auralee; she kept to a mostly liquid diet, but it wasn’t good for her. Christyn, however, happened to know that she had a weakness for all things cheesy and fried. She’d eat at least one of them before resuming her usual regimen of chasing liquor with wine.

The delivery arrived at the same time as Damian and Auralee. She entered first, and Alex gazed up at her--quite a good deal up, as she was at least half a foot taller than he was--his face taking on a look of awe.

“So this is the new roommate?” said Auralee, more to Christyn than Alex.

“Auralee, right?” said Alex.

“Sorry, do I know you?”

“We met at the Sapphire Lounge the other week.”

“Honey, I barely remember yesterday.”

“Damn, we’re ordering in now? What’s the special occasion?” asked Damian, whipping out a crisp $20 to tip the driver.

Instead of answering, Alex stood frozen on the spot, staring at him with eyes as wide as dinner plates. “Holy shit, dude!”

“Alex, didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to stare?” snapped Christyn. The last time Alex had seen Damian was roughly forty pounds ago, so she understood he’d be getting a bit of a shock to the eyes, but she had hoped he’d be a mature adult about it and withhold any overt reaction. She got up off the couch and smacked him in the arm, then immediately clutched at her searing ribs. “Fuck me!”

Alex’s behavior went straight over Damian’s head, his attention turning to Christyn. “Chrissy, are you okay?”

“Someone at her job hit her with a tray,” said Alex.

Damian’s eyes took on a dark glare. “Lemme find out whose tires I need to go up there and cut.” In his voice, Christyn could detect a note of vengeful righteousness; she’d never seen this darker side to him and as much as she was flattered that she was so important to him, she wanted to bring him back to the happy, carefree state she was used to.

“She didn’t mean it! Natalie was just being her normal, idiot self, not looking where she was going.”

“How bad is it?” He led her to the bedroom, where he helped her unbutton her shirt and spread it open to assess the damages. The swelling had gotten severe, and she had a deep purple bruise spreading a three-inch radius from where the blow had struck.

“Oh my God...does it hurt?”

“A little.” A lot.

“If I could just find out what this bitch drives.”

“Damian, no! I don’t want you getting arrested again.” She gave him a one-armed hug on her good side. “I need you to stay with me.”

He barely touched his food when they sat down to dinner, but she didn’t push him. She knew what anger did to his appetite, but sooner or later it would subside and he’d come back to the kitchen for leftovers.

Auralee stood off to the side while the others dined, picking apart one crab Rangoon and sipping from a bottle of vodka she had open on the kitchen counter. She was uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Alex made a few attempts to get her to sit down at the table and talk, but, being unsuccessful, eventually gave up, seemingly unaware of how intently she watched him eat his unadventurous dinner of plain white rice and orange chicken. “So I spoke to Jesse,” he brought up at the table, making Christyn’s blood curdle.

“When was this?”

“Easter. My aunt twisted my arm into coming to see the family,” said Alex.

“Does he know anything about me?” Christyn probed.

“Not for definite. He deduces that you’re still with Damian, but only because he thinks you brainwashed him into gaining weight for you and wouldn’t want to waste all that invested time.”

“Asshole,” said Damian.

“He really is,” Alex agreed, turning to Damian now. “He thinks she made you think it was your idea, and it pisses him off to no end that she’s ‘better’ at mind control than he is. He knows how to implant memories, but not how to rewrite them, see? He’s trying, though, on his new submissive.”

“Poor girl,” said Christyn.

“Eh...I don’t have a lick of sympathy for her, but maybe that’s because she’s the bitch who shot a hole in my ceiling.”

“Stella?” said Damian. “But I thought she only liked skinny guys.”

“Yeah, well, things change when you have a lot of money, or know how to do mind control,” said Alex. “Besides, he’s lost, jeez, it has to be about seventy pounds since you all last saw him? He barely eats; all he ever does anymore is plot revenge on Chrissy here.”

Christyn gulped. “What kind of revenge are we talking?”

Alex paled. “He said he didn’t want you dead, just something close to it.”

***

Damian started Christyn a warm bath with some bath salts he found in a cupboard that said on the label they were pain-relieving and offered her an ibuprofen, but she decided to have a glass of wine instead, because “Those pills are just as bad for your liver and not nearly as much fun.” He was sitting up in bed reading a book and waiting for her to be done, when Auralee knocked on the door.

“Damian, do you mind helping Alex with some of his stuff?”

“How much I’m getting paid?” he asked, but got out of bed anyway. His anger at Christyn’s workplace had mostly subsided, but he still had a little steam to blow off, and could be down for some heavy lifting.

As he followed Auralee out to the driveway, he noted, “You’ve been quiet.”

“Just sizing up the new guy, seeing if he’ll be amenable to having a little fun with me. He’s got a pretty face.”

“Oh God...you’re thinking of fattening him up, aren’t you?"

“Only if he’d like me to; I’m not a monster. I only do these things to the unwilling if there’s enough money on the line.”

When they got outside, Alex was struggling to haul one of his bags out of the trunk of his car. “Here, I got that for you, man,” said Damian, but as he took it from him, he realized exactly why the other man was struggling. “Damn, what you got in here, bricks?” He unzipped the bag to see a ton of those little workout weights; Auralee was silent but an expression of disappointment crossed her features. “Guess he’s not the one,” he whispered to her at the threshold.

Alex’s car (amazing Camaro, immaculate paint job and shining clean) was packed with bags, and though Damian managed to help him haul most of them to one of the spare bedrooms, they both tired out and started dropping stuff in the living room after a while. Damian almost couldn’t believe Alex had been sleeping in his car, as cluttered as it had been. Then again, Alex was a lot smaller than Damian, two inches shorter and probably eighty pounds thinner. As Alex was dragging out the last item--a guitar case--Auralee finally spoke to him.

“You play guitar?”

“Yeah, self-taught, but I’ve been practicing every day since I was fourteen…”

He decided to leave them to their conversation. It was rare to see Auralee take a break from her obsession, and he hoped her sudden interest in Alex’s music led her to make a new friend. Besides, all that physical labor had him working up an appetite since he hadn’t eaten his fill at dinner, so he headed to the kitchen to heat himself a plate of leftover Chinese.

His mouth was full of noodles when Christyn came in to refill her empty wine glass. She was in her pj’s and her hair was wet. In her comfy clothes with her face washed clean of makeup, she looked very warm and inviting. “Good, you’re eating again,” she said, setting her wine glass on the counter so she could wrap her arms around him. “I didn’t want to say anything at dinner, but I felt awful, knowing my distress was causing you distress. It’s a relief to see you looking after your lovely figure.” She gave his side an affectionate squeeze, which caused him to draw a sharp breath once he’d swallowed. She had him addicted to her attention; some days he could have sworn she would be able to make him come just by playing with and jiggling his soft parts like she liked to do.

“Keep talking like that, Chrissy, keep touching me like that, and I’m gonna have to eat you for dessert.”

***

Auralee seemed to forget about trying to fatten up the new resident, but if Damian didn’t know any better, he would have thought Christyn had taken up the task herself. Her cooking didn’t lighten up one bit, but it wasn’t her fault that Alex completely ignored any vegetables she put on the table every night, favoring the creamy pastas and bread alone. He reasoned that his high metabolism and intense workout schedule would protect him.

The workout thing annoyed Christyn, but Damian supposed she had a good reason. He was present in the hallway the day she caught Alex doing pull-ups from a bar he’d installed in his doorway and asked, “Have you found a job yet?”

“No, why?”

“So you’re up there doing...whatever it is you’re doing...while you could be looking for a job?”

He dropped to the ground so he could more easily talk without getting winded. “Why are you still on this job thing?”

“The house may be paid off, but the grocery bill is still a thing. Look, I know I did you dirty, dropping off the face of the planet like I did, but that doesn’t mean you can take advantage of my hospitality, or, for that matter, Damian and Auralee, who both contribute.”

“I’ve been looking around, okay? It isn’t easy, especially since hiring managers can just search my name now and find dirt.”

“Look harder.”

Even after Christyn pressed him, Alex struggled to find work. It was him and Damian alone in the house one day, Damian off, Alex frustratingly looking for jobs on his computer, when Damian found the DVD.

The ladies were at work and Damian had decided to make himself useful by cleaning the house, which included going into Auralee’s room and collecting all the dirty glassware she had lying around in there so he could wash it. There were so many cups, he had to take a plate and use it as a cocktail tray to get them all. While he worked, he came across a disc labeled ‘High school play’ in permanent marker, and curiosity got the better of him.

He and Auralee had already gone through most of her collection of DVDs while Christyn was at work, but he had never seen this one before. Figuring it couldn’t hurt to take a break while he waited on the dishes and the laundry, he popped the disc into the player in the living room and fixed himself a snack of microwave popcorn, onto which he drizzled some extra melted butter and garlic salt, before curling up on the couch and pressing play.

The video was shot on a camcorder, from a seat in a school auditorium. After a round of loud applause, the curtain on the stage lifted,and a very fat, very happy looking teenage actress popped out of bed to orchestral music and began singing a song about waking up in Baltimore.

Damian already knew Auralee was a good singer, but her performance in her high school musical was really blowing him away. He liked the play in general, too; it was all about body acceptance and racial equality and had such a happy vibe to it. Soon, Alex decided to take a break too, wandering into the living room and joining Damian on the couch. “I know I’m supposed to be looking for a job, but I just had to know what that beautiful sound was.” As Auralee began her next musical number, he said, “That girl has the voice, man. I’ve been a couple bands...all of them failed...but it’s always been my dream to find a frontwoman with a voice like that. If I only could...hey, do you know that girl?”

“Actually, I do. I have her number, you want it?”

“It’s a long shot, but give it to me.”

So he looked it up in his phone and gave it to him. Alex called the number then and there, and Damian heard over the line, “Auralee speaking.”

***

There was no longer a such thing as a quiet moment when Alex and Auralee were both home. They rehearsed nonstop, filling the house with the sound of heavy metal music. They were pretty good. The problem was, they liked to get drunk and play into the odd hours of the night. Christyn had resorted to using noise-cancelling headphones in her sleep; Damian snuck into the back once or twice at work to nap on top of the meat freezer, but only during Auralee’s shifts, as he knew Sabine wouldn’t be quite so forgiving if she caught him.

They had assembled a band along with a drummer Alex found online and a bassist Auralee had met while standing in line at the liquor store. They called their band The Waitstaff, and soon they began to play shows in local bars. Oftentimes, they would linger at the bars for hours after their set ended. Damian was never there, but he guessed Alex was spending that time filling up on greasy bar food and beer while he and Auralee chatted with their fans, based on the effect his new life with the band had on his body.

Damian didn’t make a habit these days of looking at other men. In the past, he used to find himself looking at fat guys with a twinge of jealousy, wishing he had the funds and the freedom to eat like they did, but now that he had everything in his lap along with a beautiful woman to grant his every wish, it felt kind of gay to be looking at dudes’ bodies. Not that there was anything wrong with gay folks; in fact, it was hot that Christyn swung both ways, but Damian was strictly about the female form.

But the change in Alex was too rapid and too obvious to miss. He was definitely thicker, his slim starting frame making the extra weight all the more noticeable, and his belly was rounding out considerably. Surprisingly, though, all his clothes still seemed to fit right. Even more amazingly, he seemed unaware of his gain.

With Alex earning money from the shows, he finally began to contribute to the household, and one evening, Christyn put his contribution to good use. She went absolutely all-out at dinner, putting together a downright buffet. Tortilla chips and artisan bread with three different kinds of dip for appetizers: her usual green dip, a queso, and a creamy, cajun spiced one with shrimp. Tomato soup and a salad with berries and mandarin orange slices, tossed in a tangy dressing with cucumbers and something called jicama for added crunch. For entrees, she sprung for a whole chicken and bacon-wrapped sausage for the boys, accompanied by mashed potatoes, vegetables sauteed in garlic butter, and flaky biscuits that she served with whipped cinnamon butter on the side. Dessert was a selection of chocolate cake, strawberry mousse, and lemon meringue pie. She had stocked the home bar, too, and spent the duration of dinner mixing everyone drinks while she munched on side dishes. She introduced Damian to a drink called a “white Russian,” which was creamy and sweet and which he guessed packed an impressive caloric punch. Over the course of the meal he asked her for no less than five of them, so that by the time she was clearing, he was blissfully, helplessly stuffed and drunk, his stomach stretched to his limit as he leaned back in his seat just waiting for her to finish cleaning so she could drag him to bed. In the next seat, Alex was in a similar state.

“This been great, babe,” said Damian, copping a feel of her ass as she moved to pick up the spotlessly empty plates in front of him. “You’d think it’s Christmas.”

“Well, it is a special occasion.”

“Really?”

Christyn looked from Auralee to Alex. “You mean you haven’t told him?”

“Told me what?”

Auralee smiled across the table and clapped her hands together. “We’re going on tour!”


	23. TWENTY-TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning in this chapter for domestic assault.

**TWENTY-TWO**

Alex and Auralee’s tour would have them hitting bars and concert venues in every major city in southeast Texas. They would be gone for a month, and although Damian considered Auralee a friend, there were a lot of obvious benefits to her being absent.

For one thing, the liquor lasted much longer. The house also stayed cleaner, and at last, it was quiet enough for Damian to actually catch some sleep.

The best thing about Auralee being gone was that all the ‘special reservations’ at the bowling alley had been put on hold. She had contacted her clients and told them to postpone coming in until she returned. According to her, the work she did in the back on grills for her high-dollar clients was the dirtiest part of the job, and while she was willing to do it herself, she couldn’t bring herself to force Damian, Zeke, or Sabine to carry it on their conscience.

What a fucking sweetheart, right?

Finally, the empty house gave him and Christyn many more chances than usual to get it on. His new favorite game was slipping a hand down the front of her pants while she was trying to cook. She would start in talking about how many health codes he was violating, but it never took long for him to get her so wet that she was begging him to take her, usually on the counter but sometimes from behind with her bent over the table and once, standing up against the fridge.

In the days leading up to his birthday, she had asked him what he wanted, and he insisted her time was the most precious thing to him. He had a good job, he could buy himself stuff, but it wasn’t every day he got to have her all to himself. So, she had promised to take a day off on the date, which left him a little confused when the morning of the 11th of September rolled around and she returned to the bedroom after breakfast to get dressed in her black dress shirt and slacks.

“Who called you in?” he said, trying to hide his disappointment.

“Nobody. Both Esteban and Abigail know it would be a violation of the Texas health code to make me work while I’m sick with a bad case of diarrhea.” She was obviously fine, but she must have told her bosses that she wasn’t in order to secure the day off. A grin spread across his face.

“Way to finesse! But...why are you dressed as a server?”

“It occurred to me that the one craving of yours I haven’t been satisfying is that for mischief. So I thought we’d go to the art museum...without paying the cover. We’ll say we’re from the agency, which technically, I am, I just won’t be on shift. But security doesn’t get the list of all the temps on the schedule, and neither does the parking guard. Get your server black-on-black on; we’re both about to do some finessing today.”

His grin grew even wider. “My Chrissy wants to break the law?” He waited for her to finish doing her buttons before picking her up bridal style and kissing her deeply.

When the kiss broke, she looked dizzy. Her hands came to a rest on his upper arms and she said, “Impressive.”

“You think? You’re lighter than your average keg of beer,” he said with a smirk. Even though his gain had slowed lately with the rapid pace of work Beans demanded on the clock, his arm muscles were getting seriously huge, and the look on Christyn’s face told him she liked him being able to handle her body with the same careful ease with which he might pick up something as light as a wine bottle. She leaned in to kiss him gently right under his ear, at the base of his softening jawline, and worked her way a few inches down before pulling back in his arms, giving him the most adoring look. “Get dressed, sweet thing.”

He put her down and put on one of the button downs and a pair of dress pants he’d bought on their last shopping trip. Everything still fit with some room: at Christyn’s insistence, he’d bought everything a size over for the sake of being economical, even if she did like to see him in skintight clothes. She drove them to the museum (man, how he didn’t miss Auralee’s reckless driving) and, as promised, they had no trouble getting past the parking guard, or security as she took them through the service entrance.

“What do you want to look at first?”

“I don’t know!”

So they just wandered around for a while, Christyn letting Damian lead as he took in the sights of paintings from ancient to modern, sculptures, dye on cloth and carvings in ivory and jewelry that had been worn by people who had been dead for centuries. After a while, he said, “Maybe we should have paid the ticket entry. Don’t they gotta maintain these places?”

“Trust me, most of the money goes straight into the owners’ pockets. I talk to the workers here, they’re underpaid and treated like dog crap. If the people in charge really cared, they would invest in the staff first.”

For lunch, she took him to the taco truck stationed on the museum’s grounds out by the fountain, where a robust woman appearing to be in her 40s was manning the kitchen and the register by herself. “Whoa, Chef Helen, running understaffed?” said Christyn.

“Oh, you know. We can’t seem to hold onto these cashiers. Honestly, I swore I’d already be out of here by now. You know they denied me that promotion, right?”

“What? No!”

The two women shot the shit for a while before Christyn placed her order. “Let us get a combo platter and two cauliflower tacos, please?”

“Sure, that’ll be $16.68.”

“Oh, we’re here for work with ABC, we’re on our lunch break. I just don’t like the food at the cafe inside.”

“Oh, in that case it’ll be $8.34.”

Christyn handed the chef a $20 and told her to keep the change and “put it in little Andy’s college fund.”

They sat at a picnic table in the courtyard to eat. The tacos were fire; “She said she got turned down for a promotion?”

“It’s an unjust world,” Christyn agreed.

After that, they explored the rest of the exhibits they hadn’t seen yet and left a little before close. Christyn pulled in at a grocery store on the way home. “What do you want for dinner, babe?”

“Surprise me, you always do good.”

They loaded up on a few things they were out of at the house (tomatoes, butter, garlic) before Christyn sent Damian to go look at the magazines while she picked out ingredients for dessert--he had said to surprise him. So, he wandered over to the magazine aisles and perused them with a bored expression. He remembered being little and laughing at the tabloids at the front of the store: obviously fake news articles about Bigfoot sightings and big-headed green men falling out of the sky from spacecrafts. There were no tabloids now. Every piece of media that wasn’t centered on weight loss was full of serious headlines pointing toward the fall of society: war, pollution, natural disasters, mass extinctions, economic collapse. It was enough to depress anyone who didn’t have someone around to be the bright spot (even if Christyn was the most cynical person Damian knew by a longshot.)

After she’d checked out, she came and got him, her eyes glinting with a hint of what she planned to do to him. He couldn’t wait.

They got home around 7, by which time Damian was ready for another good meal. “What do you want me to help you with?” he asked as Christyn worked in the kitchen.

“Nonsense, it’s your birthday.”

He flinched slightly, but he didn’t think she noticed. Nonsense, that had been one of his sister’s favorite words when he was growing up. Needless to say, there was a good reason he left home….

“Right, so it should be about what I want, right? And I want to help.”

“When you put it that way, you do have a point. Here, keep an eye on the roux for me.”

“What’s a roux?”

“It’s what makes the soup thick.” She indicated a pot on the stove where she was cooking a mixture of flour, butter, and garlic. “Now, we don’t want it to burn, so keep stirring it and when it’s bubbling, pour some milk on it.” She handed him the jug of milk before turning to chop some vegetables on the other counter.

“How much milk?”

“A five-count should do it.”

Before too long, they were sitting down to a scrumptious meal: creamy tomato soup, seasoned rice with shellfish and vegetables, and warm, crumbly cornbread. Damian mixed everything together in a bowl so the bread and rice could soak up some of the soup, the combination reminding him of gumbo, but richer and thicker.

“Huh. That’s a good idea,” said Christyn, pouring some soup over her rice and bread, but she only had one small helping before getting up to put the finishing touches on dessert. “And no peeking!”

As she worked, he put away a second bowl of soup-soaked rice and bread, reaching a point of definite satisfaction by the end of it. He could have had another, but he didn’t know exactly how much dessert she was preparing over there, and she was taking her sweet time.

At last, she finished up, washed her hands in the sink, and made her way back over to the table, where she straddled his lap in his seat, holding a plate between them. On it were six of what he assumed were cake balls, each the size of a golf ball and covered in hot fudge sauce with a burning candle sticking out. “Blow,” she told him.

His breath hitched as it dawned on him that she planned to feed him with her hands. It would be messy, and he’d probably have to lick her fingers clean.

Oh man. He’d just written a blog post about this particular fantasy, too.

He blew the candles out and made a wish that she would always be this good to him.

She placed the plate on the table, plucked off one of the balls, tearing it in half to reveal flaky pastry and a cream-filled center, and placed one half in his mouth. The cream filling was amazing, cold and fluffy to contrast the warm, gooey chocolate. He had barely swallowed before she put the second half in his mouth, and when he finished that, she made him suck the cream and chocolate off the candle and then her fingers.

As she repeated these steps over and over again, she rocked back and forth in his lap. He was getting harder by the minute, but it was hard to undress her while she was stuffing his face and in turn making him even hornier. It was a slow process, but he managed to strip her down to her panties and bra, letting her uniform fall to the kitchen floor. Eventually, mercifully, she opened his pants and sprung his erection, pushing up his shirt and grinding against his lap so his cock got rubbed between her body and the soft underside of his own gut.

Of course, it wasn’t the same as being inside her, but the sight alone of her pushing him against his own fat was doing things to him. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Chrissy,” he said, but she just pushed another bite past his lips.

He decided to retaliate by snaking a hand down the back of her panties to finger her. She was quite wet, but kept on teasing him. “Oh, you’re getting so nice and plump. Even your fingers feel fatter!”

He was so close to blowing his load now. “You don’t play fair!”

She made him suck her fingers clean once more before giving his belly a smack--not hard enough to hurt him by any means, just enough to make his flesh jiggle and quiver against his cock. “Look how much of you there is to play with now!”

He tried to hold back. He really did. But it was all too much for him and pretty soon, he lost control and shot her right in the face.

She laughed, thumbing some jism that dripped from her chin and licking it up. That could have gone a lot worse. At least she wasn’t mad.

“It’s really cute that I can get you off just by teasing you,” she said. “We are going to need to work a little on your stamina though. Maybe I’ll just have to fuck you fourteen times a day until you’re not so sensitive. Of course, I’ll have to stuff you double, too, to make up for lost calories…”

As soon as she said that, he was up again within seconds. Her jaw dropped. Looking from his cock to his eyes, she wiped her face off with a dinner napkin and said, “I think I can work with this.”

Later on, he was spooning her in bed, his thigh draped over her, one hand on her sweet little belly while his pooled against the curve between the bottom of her shoulderblades and the base of her spine. It had been a while since he’d had to sleep with a pillow between his legs for comfort--he had been cushiony enough himself for the last several months--but he liked having Christyn in its place. It was beginning to cool down for the year and Christyn was hogging the blankets, but for once, the cool air felt good on Damian’s skin. God, he loved getting fat, and even more, he loved that his woman was all for making him fatter. “How did I ever get lucky enough to get with you?” he said.

“You really want to know?”

“If you have an answer for me.”

“After I left Paul Slater at Pasture, I thought to myself that I had a really bad habit of going for guys who were fake-nice. Smart, and take-charge, and all seemingly nice at first, but cruel deep down. And then I remembered that I already knew the nicest guy, that he was my best friend and he had a lot of qualities that I liked...he was funny, sensitive, good at art...he was the only one who helped me through the delirium tremens…”

“Sounds like a keeper.” He smiled.

“Oh, yeah. His name was Damian, and he was the best, although when I met him, he was sad and painfully thin, but I’m working every day to fix that.”

He squeezed her close and she sighed in contentment. “Oh, you’re so warm!” she said. “You make me feel like I’m absolutely enveloped in comfort and safety.

“And if you don’t get your dick off my ass, you’re fixing to get fucked again, Damian Mendez.”

She then pressed her ass right up against his dick and it hardened immediately. “I don’t think that’s finna be a problem.”

***

Auralee and Alex returned much too soon. Christyn lamented the loss of her freedom to undress Damian wherever and whenever she pleased, but she still made a grand affair of the welcome-back dinner out of instinct.

After dinner, Alex pulled her aside into the living room. Standing across from him, she could really see the difference in his frame. His once sagging pants now hugged his butt and thighs and his belly bulged over the waistband beneath his shirt. “Notice anything different?” he asked.

“You...look well,” she said, not wanting to offend him.

“Oh, don’t beat around the bush. I’ve put on twenty pounds on tour, on top of the fifteen pounds I must have put on while living here--the hotel scale confirmed it.”

“You carry it well,” she said nervously.

“Don’t hide your desire; we all know you like your man heavier. Even if it was his idea, you’ve grown accustomed to a growing boy. Look but don’t touch, though. I am happily taken by Ms. Auralee Kingston.”

“Oh?”

“After it hit me how much weight I had gained, I freaked out a little,” Alex admitted. “I almost wanted to cancel the tour. But Auralee was so sweet...she came to me, told me she didn’t mind the new pounds...and she touched me, and squeezed my new fat sides and kissed me. She's so wonderful. I’ve told you I've had a crush on her forever, right?”

“At least thirty times.”

“Anyway, she got all shy and asked me how I’d feel about putting on another ten, to see how we like it. I think I’m gonna do it. God, the way she touched me. You know, I always thought I had to be buff and attractive for women to like me--why else would my fat sucker of a cousin have to brainwash them to get them to stay? But there really are women out there who are kind and accepting, and it looks like I bagged me one of them!”

That night, Christyn found Auralee smoking a cigarette on the back patio and smacked her upside the head.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“You lied to him!” Christyn spat. “You made him think you were some bright-eyed ingenue when you’ve been in the feeder game for years!”

“I meant no harm…”

“This whole thing is a powder keg, I’m telling you,” said Christyn before retreating to her own bedroom to cuddle a nice and plump and definitely consenting Damian to sleep.

***

“And now you’re drugging him to stuff him?”

“Chrissy, no, it isn’t like that!”

Christyn had come home for her lunch break to find Alex on the couch, dazed and unresponsive, and was waiting for Auralee’s explanation. “Alright then, what’s it like?”

“I got him the drugs so we could have sex.”

“So you ruphied him!”

“No, no! He was the one who said he wanted it...but he has difficulties in the, uh, downstairs regions. He’s in chronic pain due to a very severe case of hemorrhoids. I offered him painkillers, but he said he’s already built up a tolerance to all the major ones. So I got my brother to draw up a script for Xanax.”

Christyn crossed her arms. “And you swear you didn’t use his state as an opportunity to feed him unwillingly?”

“I never put one bite of food in his mouth. He did that all himself. Albeit, to please me…”

“Under false pretenses, at that.”

“I never lied!”

“You said you didn’t mind the weight. Understatement of the century, if you ask me.”

“And he’s getting much more comfortable with the changes. In fact, just yesterday, he said he liked gaining for me. And before you ask, no, he wasn’t barred out!” she added defensively. “You know, for a friend, you have a very low opinion of me.”

Over on the couch, Alex sat oblivious like a zombie.

“On the contrary, it’s precisely because I know you so well that I fear you. I don’t even know the extent of what you’re capable of, but I know enough. And I know Alex, too. This won’t end well,” Christyn concluded and walked out of the room.

***

Damian had never seen the appeal of Auralee as a lover, but he supposed that just came down to personal preferences. Alex, however, was head over heels for her, and it was nice to see him happy and her finally enjoying a fulfilling relationship. He imagined it had been hard for her to watch from the sidelines while he and Christyn had all the fun.

Alex was also a lot more easy to be around now that he was playing in the band and enjoying himself instead of spending all day complaining about how hard it was to get a job. He and Damian were quickly building a friendship over popcorn and movies when they were out of band practice and work, respectively. It was a little concerning when he caught Alex clearly barred out once or twice, and he was beginning to worry that he was letting band life get to him and popping pills, but he was satisfied with the explanation Auralee gave him that Alex needed the pills for his horrible chronic butt pain, although it was way more than he would have wanted to know.

One day while Damian was doing a load of dishes, Alex found him in the kitchen and said, “Alright, spill. What’s been the secret to your success?”

“What you mean?” asked Damian, confused.

“C’mon, dude, in less than a year, you’ve blown up. It’s obvious that the fatter I get, the happier Auralee gets...and the freakier she gets in bed.” Alex smirked.

“Auralee’s my manager, I don’t think I should be openly talking about her sex life.”

“No one said you had to do that. Just teach me how to crack my metabolism. C’mon, us big guys need to stick together, right?”

Damian shrugged. “It hasn’t been that hard for me. Chrissy cooks good. And Auralee said my metabolism is already messed up from being so broke for so many years that there were times I was only eating twice or three times a week."

“So intermittent fasting might just do the trick?”

“Intermittent what now?”

“Hey, wait a minute…” Out of nowhere, Alex narrowed his eyes and said, “Auralee seems to know more about the science of weight gain than she lets on.”

That’s when it hit Damian.

Oh no.

She didn’t tell him.

“Well, yeah, I mean, her brother’s a medical doctor.” Damian hoped that was a good enough save.

That night at dinner, Alex was unusually quiet while Christyn set the table with food. Damian kept an eye on him in equal silence while he loaded his plate, waiting for something to happen. Auralee was the first to speak, helping herself to some of the appetizer, fried gouda rounds with a marinara sauce that had taken Christyn hours to make. “Ooh, little fried cheeses! My favorite. Oh my god, Chrissy, these are fantastic!”

Christyn looked at each of the men as she served herself a shrimp skewer and some creamed spinach. “Doesn’t anyone else have something to say? Or have I messed up this time?” She took a bite of the spinach and said, “Tastes fine to me.”

“It’s good, Chrissy, it’s all really delicious,” said Damian, skewering a roasted potato with his fork, still braced for some kind of explosion from Alex.

“Well, you have to tell me! You know I appreciate your compliments. Alex, what do you think?”

“You know, I did some digging around on the Internet today, and I came across a very peculiar blog. Do any of you know what it had on it?” His tone was flat and he looked at no one in particular. He’d probably popped a Xan or two.

“Damian bombarding the Internet with shirtless selfies and backsassing anons?” Auralee proposed.

Damian turned bright red and glanced at Christyn. “I was gonna tell you…”

“Don’t sweat it, I’m already a follower,” she said, sipping her wine.

“You...you are?”

“Yeah, I run a climate change activism blog--”

“ColderEveryWinter.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t already guessed it was me,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to spy on you, but following your blog has helped me figure out how to please you, kind of like a kinky little wishlist.”

He was glad that was all out in the open, but the crisis wasn’t averted yet.

“Actually,” said Alex, “I was talking about another blog, Aura-Fixation...Auralee, would you like some more wine before we continue this discussion?”

He was holding the bottle wrong. Damian saw what was coming a second before it happened. He pulled Auralee out of her seat and into his own lap just in time for her to miss the spray of broken glass as Alex shattered the bottle against the table, holding it by the neck now, pointy-end out like a weapon. “Tell me, Aura, how long did you think you could hide this ‘feeder’ stuff from me? ‘Oh, Alex, skip your workout, we need to be practicing this chorus! Come to the bar with us after rehearsal, Alex, I want cheese sticks!’ Did you really think deep down I would never catch on? Or that I wouldn’t notice the first fifteen pounds just because my clothes still fit?”

Despite her height, Auralee weighed next to nothing. She was shaking like a little leaf and sniffling with oncoming tears. Through her crying, she admitted, “I replaced them and switched the labels.”

“You deceptive little bitch.” He made a swipe for her with the bottle, but Damian pulled her protectively closer to himself.

“Alex, calm down! Put down the bottle. Can’t you two just talk about this?”

Alex turned around abruptly. “And where the fuck did she go?”

Christyn had slipped out so quietly, Damian hadn’t even noticed her leaving her seat.

***

Christyn stood frozen with dread in the foyer for minutes on end, wondering what she was supposed to do now. She couldn’t call the cops, not while she was harboring a fugitive. She still had her pistol strapped to her hip from earlier at work, but she didn’t want it to have to come to that.

Then she thought, why shouldn’t she call the cops? Damian could make himself scarce while they made their arrest on Alex, and if he decided to take it out on Christyn by ratting her out, well, who would they believe: the titled owner of the house, who was in good standing with her colleagues, or an unemployed raving lunatic who would test positive for Xanax?

She pulled out her phone and dialed.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“I need to order a pepperoni pizza for delivery.”

“Ma’am, this is an emergency line.”

“I understand that. I just need a pepperoni pizza to arrive at--”

An arm hooked around her throat from behind, a bottle held threateningly to her face. She dropped her phone on the ground as Alex squeezed around her neck, lifting her heels an inch off the ground with the force of his chokehold. Just her luck, the 911 operator seemed not to have been trained to recognize a pizza order as a domestic violence call, and now, she’d just been walked in on ordering a pizza by a man who’d gone bezerk after finding out about his girlfriend’s secret double life as a feeder. Christyn tried to pry him off, but as fast as she was losing air, she was too weak.

“I bet you helped Auralee plan all this out, didn’t you? Is that it, are you her little lackey? Did she assign you to Damian, too, huh?”

Just as the edges of her vision began to blur and turn purple, she was released. As she filled her lungs with air, she saw that Damian had disarmed Alex and had him in a hold with his arms locked behind his back. Sometimes she forgot he used to work as a security guard. Even if he had no hope of fitting into his old uniform these days, he seemed to have retained his skill set: though Alex struggled and struggled, he could not break free.

Christyn drew her gun and fired two warning shots into the ground by Alex’s feet. Training the gun on him now, she said, “Ten minutes. You have ten minutes to gather your essentials and figure out somewhere else to sleep. I don’t care if it’s in the goddamn Camaro.”


	24. TWENTY-THREE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning in this chapter for implied cannibalism.

**TWENTY-THREE**

Auralee had slipped into a constant state of misery.

It was one of those days when Damian and Auralee got off early while Christyn was at work all day. Usually when this happened, they would order takeout and watch movies together, but anymore, all Auralee did when she wasn’t at work was sit in her room feeling sorry for herself, drinking and listening to the police radio. She said it was to ‘see if that sonofabitch got barred out and crashed his car yet,’ but Damian knew she was trying to reassure herself that he hadn’t been taken in by the cops.

For dinner he made himself a double-stacked BLT with extra tomatoes and a scrambled egg inside, along with some of Christyn’s Vietnamese hot sauce. (He’d always suspected she was Asian; it was especially obvious back when her hair was darker. Turns out, when she’d told him she was ‘from Beaumont,’ she had meant that that was where she was born.) As a second thought, he made a grilled cheese sandwich for Auralee, toasted on the stove with a generous amount of butter on each side and stacked with so many slices of cheese, it should be illegal. She would need some food to hold down all that liquor, and if there was one thing Auralee couldn’t resist, it was cheese.

He knocked on her door quietly. At her choked “Come in,” he stepped inside to find her curled up at the head of her bed with a bottle of vodka.

“I made you food. I thought we could hang out,” he said, placing her plate on the rumpled sheets in front of her.

She looked up at him with red eyes. “Call it what you want, I know you came to comfort me. Thank you, by the way. Chrissy thinks I made my own bed on this one.”

“No offense, Auralee, but this bed looks like it hasn’t been made since the ‘90s.”

“What I mean is, she thinks I’m in the wrong for keeping my fetish from Alex. And I guess she’s right. I am a total hypocrite. All that stuff I told you about being honest with Chrissy--”

“It’s different, though, isn’t it?” said Damian, coming to sit on the side of the bed. He tuned the radio to the country station instead of the police stuff she had it on. “It didn’t take much convincing to get Christyn to try out the feeder role, but she's not the one who has to take the evidence of what we do to work with her every day. If I had asked her to get fat for me, and she didn’t want to, things might have gone a lot different between us. So I get that you were afraid to just come out and say it.”

“You know, I never meant to fall for him,” said Auralee, snatching a tissue off her end-table to wipe the snot off her face before she reached for the plate. Damian had cut her sandwich into four little triangles, and she picked up one of them and took a bite. “Once I knew he was such a workout freak, I had planned to back off. Sure, the fantasy of turning a guy from a jock to a complete butterball is appealing, but I was going to keep it at just that: a fantasy. No fun in fattening up someone who’s just going to resent you for it later. But then we started the band, and he thought his metabolism was so invincible that when we’d hang out in bars after the shows, he’d just eat without a care in the world. He put the weight on himself, you have to know that I never forced him to eat one bite. Then, on tour, he freaked out about it, and I told him I liked it...I was just scared to tell him exactly how much. I’ll admit, switching the labels on his clothes was deceitful of me…”

“A little messed up, yeah.”

“I just wanted to delay the moment of his ego getting dented. He’s so passionate about the music. Onstage, he just...comes alive. It captivated me. And offstage, he was playful, intelligent...he’s the only man who’s ever been able to meet me blow for blow in our game of verbal foreplay. Swordplay! Meant to say swordplay. I just wanted to keep him the way he was for as long as possible, mentally, at least.” She finished one triangle of grilled cheese and reached for another. “This is really good, by the way. You’re shaping up into quite the excellent chef.”

“It’s just grilled cheese.”

“Well, it’s delectable.”

She could speak for herself. The only way you could get him to eat that much cheese was if you put a hefty sum of money on the line.

“If you’re sorry, just tell him.”

“I’m way ahead of you. Here’s my new set list for the show next week. It’s going to be broadcast on the radio...I just hope he’ll be listening.” She handed him a notepad with her selections scribbled down in ballpoint pen. He didn’t recognize any of the songs, but they all had titles like Cara Mia and Only Want to Be With You and I Think I Love You. He guessed this was her way of begging Alex back.

“I was thinking over the phone, but this works too. Maybe I should go with, for security? In case he shows up and flips out again?”

“Oh, Damian, if I feel the need, I have men with guns for that. But thank you.” She reached over and pinched his cheek like one might do to a little brother or a son. “The world needs more of you, and I’m not talking about weight gain.”

***

That selfish, childish, foolish pair of lunatics!

As Christyn clocked out at the hotel and made her way out to her car, she wondered how she and Damian, who were newbies to the feedist scene entirely (although he had obviously spent a lot of time thinking about it before he came out to her), could put this lifestyle into practice while perfectly preserving one another’s autonomy and get it more or less right on the first try, while Auralee, who was old enough and experienced enough to know better, toyed with Alex like a bratty schoolgirl, and Alex, upon discovering her deceptions, threw tantrums like a toddler?

She would have thought Auralee, who’d had her own bodily autonomy hijacked by her family, would have learned about respect by now. Or that Alex, who had grown up resenting his more successful but abusive cousin, would have taken self-control from the experience. Maybe maturity was less tied to age than one might think.

She knew she was being more judgmental than she had ever been, but she still had the strangulation bruises around her neck and shoulders. In the state of Texas, domestic assault with impediment of breathing and/or circulation was a felony on the same tier as manslaughter, Damian could tell her that much. (Her poor boy, they had thrown him in the intake tank with all the city’s murderers and rapists and other such monsters. And yet, he remained as sweet as ever. This past week he had spent fussing over her: kissing her bruises, fluffing her pillows, holding her extra securely when the jitters and twitches of paranoia overtook her.)

She had just begun the drive home when the call came in from Alex. She already had her earphones in, and when she picked up, all she said was, “This had better be good.”

“Christyn, thank god! I’m so confused. Why did I wake up on a park bench?”

“Oh, don’t try and feign amnesia with me, Mr. Master of Bullshit.”

“Okay, okay, you called me out.” He sighed. “I do remember...but I wasn’t in my right mind. If you could just tell Auralee I’m sorry, I think she and I have a lot to talk about.”

Christyn shook her head in exasperation as she turned onto her street. “If you have something to say to her, you can do it yourself. She’s playing a show at the Hotel Flamenco with some replacement guitarist she found online. You can turn up and apologize if you want, but no funny business. I’ll be there, and I’ll be armed,” she warned him before hanging up.

***

Auralee’s replacement guitarist was a weedy-looking twenty-something white boy named Stephen who Christyn had met a few times when he came to the house for rehearsal, but never spoken to. She had, however, had passing interactions with him: once, when she offered snacks for the band, he had declined a bit brusquely. Another time, he had laughed at her expense when her butt got stuck between two couches they had to move so they’d have space to practice in the living room. Auralee was already talking about firing him, but for now she needed someone to play the show at the hotel.

Finally, the night of the show came, and 20 minutes before curtains (figuratively speaking, as there was no curtain for the stage that Christyn and the other bartenders had hastily assembled the previous night because Robert and Sylvia didn’t want to pay the bussers for an extra two hours after the bar closed), she had left Topher to watch the counter while she helped Auralee touch up her makeup in the sit-down lounge at the back of the restaurant area. Over by the stage, the rest of the band set up and showed the guys from the radio station where to put their equipment.

“Try not to cry it off this time,” she said, touching up Auralee’s eyeliner, only to have it smudge as her eyes watered continuously. Christyn hadn’t seen her so miserable since she recovered from her first surgery. Posing as her sister so the hospital administrators would let her into the room, she had gone to see Auralee only to find her so haunted by the experience, she couldn’t speak, only whimper. Now, she had reached a level of sulking far past her habit of inappropriately timed laughter, letting a rare display of her true emotions be seen as she let slip tears without warning.

“What you need to do is draw the eye down,” advised Damian, who had come along to support Auralee. He had been especially generous in allowing her to emotionally lean on him lately. Ask Christyn, he was being nicer to her than she deserved. Discreetly nudging a grand total of 35 pounds onto someone’s body without disclosing your motives was, in her opinion, only slightly less deranged than strangling someone who had nothing to do with it all. But she wasn’t going to stop Damian from being kind; it was just who he was, and one of the qualities she most adored in him.

“May I?” he gestured towards Auralee’s bag.

“Sure, have at it.”

He dug through her things until he found a tube of deep purple lipstick. “Here, put this on. It’ll distract from the smudged eyeliner. And see if you can get it to look like you smudged it on purpose, like a smoky thing.”

“Huh,” said Auralee, applying the lipstick in her compact mirror. “You really are quite the artist.”

Just then, Stephen came up to Damian and handed him a plate from the bar. “Here’s the cheese sticks you wanted me to get for Aura. But you’ll finish most of them for her, right? After all, the star of the show needs to keep her figure.”

“She needs to eat, too,” said Damian. “Everyone needs to eat.”

“Really, that what the doctor tell you, Slim?”

“I’m a barback at a bowling alley, you really think I have health insurance?”

Brushing off this rebuttal, Stephen displaced Christyn on the couch and put an arm around Auralee. “How about a kiss for good luck before the show, huh?”

“I already told you, I’m not interested.”

“Come on, just one!” he insisted, pulling her close while she tried in vain to shove him away.

Christyn must have mentioned to Alex in passing that she kept the back door propped open with a brick for ease of smoke breaks, because that was where he came in, just in time to see Auralee harassed by his replacement.

“Hey!” He came up behind the couch and placed a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “Hey, man, can I talk to you?”

“Well, I usually like to save meet-and-greet with the fans until after the show, but sure, what’s up?”

No sooner had he stood up than Alex punched him square in the face, knocking him out cold. His head bounced off the coffee table before he hit the floor, and Alex smirked with satisfaction. “Nobody violates my girl.”

“Your girl? You mean...you want me back?” Auralee stood up and ran around the couch to throw herself into Alex’s arms.

“Babe, I’ve been a wreck without you,” he said. “I’ll do whatever you want, but you just have to tell me. I’ll gain another 50 pounds...hell, I’ll gain a hundred! Just don’t hide things from me!”

“I’m sorry! I should have been open,” said Auralee, finally breaking away. “Maybe we should start over. No more secrets this time.”

“Okay. Hi, I’m Alex. I have eight years’ experience working in the restaurant industry, one in personal fitness, but my real passion is music. I have some anger management issues and I probably shouldn’t be around drugs, but I’m working on my issues every day.” He extended a hand, and she shook it with vigor.

“Hi, I’m Auralee, and I like fat dudes.”

“This is all very sweet,” said Christyn. “But I need to fix your eyeliner, Aura, and Alex!” She thrust the folder of sheet music that had fallen out of Stephen’s hands at him. “You need to learn all this music in the next eight minutes.”

“You think you’ve never seen me bullshit my way through a concert before? Don’t forget, I’m--”

“The ‘master,’ yes, I know! Now get reading!”

***

“Dinner has been lovely, Chrissy. Time for a nightcap before bed, I think. Alex, honey, how many cc’s of melted butter do you think you can drink?”

Christyn and Damian both shuddered as Christyn got up from the table to get dessert from the fridge. “I hardly think that will be necessary, Aura. I’ve made some lovely carrot cake cupcakes!”

She had really outdone herself, thought Damian as he helped himself to a cupcake. He had helped her draw little carrots on top of each one in green and orange frosting with a piping bag, but other than that, the sinfully thick frosting complimenting dense, moist cake that was a perfect mix of sweet and spicy was all a product of her genius in the kitchen. As he took his last bite, he let feelings of contentment and satisfaction wash over him in waves.

Alex was starting on his second cupcake, at Auralee’s insistence, when he said, “So I talked to Jesse…”

“When was this?” asked Christyn, her hands starting to shake as she worked her own cupcake out of its paper.

It had been such a nice dinner until Alex brought up that man’s name.

“A few days ago. I had gone to see if I could get any money out of my aunt, and I ran into him. He’s a mess, still talking revenge, and that Stella has gotten faaaaaat!”

“That’s unlike Jesse,” said Christyn. “He always wanted me to be thinner.”

“It’s not about liking skinny women or fat women for him,” Damian supplied. “He doesn’t really even like women at all, I think. He just likes power. With you, trying to make you weak was how he planned to take away your power. But you were too smart for him. With Stella, he must think taking away her own control of her thin body is the easiest way to control her.”

“You’re so smart sometimes,” said Christyn.

Auralee looked straight at Alex and said, “I want you to cut off all contact with Jesse.”

“I just want to keep Christyn in the loop.”

“Well, you’re not bringing us any useful information. Jesse might not know of your living arrangement, but he already knows you and Christyn are friends. He’s not going to give away anything vital. If anything, he just intends to use you as a tool to strike fear into her heart. Besides, I feel like a lot of your negative associations with fatness have to do with Jesse being fat, or, more recently, since he’s been losing weight, his involuntary fattening up of this Stella person. I want you to break these negative associations so we can continue to build positive associations, and especially with this Stella business, I don’t want you to have to see that happen and get the idea that feedism is a seedy, deceitful thing. I know I’ve made my mistakes in the past, but every pound you gain for me now, I want to be voluntary. And seeing a young woman gaslit before your eyes doesn’t sound like wholesome encouragement.”

It was nice to see her being so out in the open for once.

“And just look what we’re doing to poor Chrissy! This conversation looks like it’s torturing her.”

Christyn was clutching the table for support, white-knuckled, her dessert uneaten. She was as pale as a ghost and looked like she might throw up. “Damian, why don’t you attend to her?” Auralee suggested.

Damian helped her to standing and led her to their room, where she collapsed against him when he sat her down on the bed. Her arms wrapped around him tight and he could feel her shake with dry sobs as she buried her head against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I should be over it, it’s just...I still dream about him. I beat myself up for ever falling into his trap and I wake up from nightmares hating myself and I--”

“It’s okay, Chrissy.” He cuddled her flush against him in the way he had come to know she found comforting. “Do you need a drink?”

“No,” she said, “I only need you.”

He laid her down against the sheets and held her in his arms. “I don’t even remember how I met him, and it fucks me up.”

“It’s not your fault. He messed with your memories.”

“Sorry you have to put up with me. God, I’m so pathetic,” she said.

“No!” He squeezed her tighter. “Listen to me, Christyn! You are not pathetic!”

“S-sorry. I don’t mean to upset you.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

She breathed hard for a minute or two, but after a while, managed to choke out, “I’m not pathetic.”

“The hell you aren’t. That’s my sweet girl. You are so strong, and I love you so much.”

“Well, that’s your fault, not mine,” she said, but even so, she snuggled against him even closer, and he decided he’d take it, for now.

***

Damian was rotating the air in the beer walk-in at work when Will came into the back and started looking through the meat freezer. “Whatcha looking for?” asked Damian.

“Auralee sent me back here to get her some more ground pork shoulder for the tacos.”

“Liar.” Damian knew full well that Auralee liked to restock the food items herself, and even if she couldn’t, she’d send a cook before a barback. He stopped what he was doing and closed in on Will’s position, causing the other barback to draw back in his place. Damian had always outsized him, but back when he started this job, he’d simply been soft; now that he was getting pretty stacked, he knew he could come across as a downright threat if he wanted to, and he wanted to. “Look, I know you’ve been trying to dig dirt on Auralee.” It had gotten even worse since she got a boyfriend, too. “But you’re not gonna find anything in there. It’s just a meat freezer, there’s nothing in here but meat!” He took out a shrink-wrapped hunk of meat and held it up to demonstrate his point. Will suddenly went very pale and still. “What, William?”

“Call me crazy...but does that look like a foot to you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Damian took a second to examine the piece of meat…

Of course, it was skinned, so it was hard to tell. There were no toes, but the curve of the bone at one end did display a striking resemblance to a human heel and ankle.

Damian dropped it back in the freezer and choked back a scream.

He found Auralee behind the bar and tugged on one of the baggy sleeves of her black dress shirt that she had rolled up to the elbow. “Auralee, I need your help in the back.”

“Damian, whatever it is, if you can’t lift it, what makes you think I can?” Nevertheless, she followed him into the back kitchen, where Will was still standing, looking queasy and awaiting an explanation.

“It’s nothing like that. I just need you to take a look at this,” he popped the freezer back open and pointed out the suspicious cut of meat, “and tell me that it isn’t a human foot.”

“I’m sorry, Damian.”

Will fainted on the spot.

“Great, that’s another one I have to kill.” She gave Will’s unresponsive body a halfhearted nudge with her foot. “Come outside with me, Damian, let’s take a walk and have a smoke.”

“But the bar--”

“There’s a server on, if people want alcohol they can order it in the lanes.”

He followed her outside, suspiciously eyeing the cigarette that she pressed into his hand. “Is this laced with anything?”

“Damian, no! What do you take me for?”

“Well, I just found a foot in your meat freezer,” he reminded her.

She lit up a cigarette out of the same pack, so he assumed it was safe and lit up himself. As she led the way around the perimeter of the building, she said, “You know my special clients, the ones who pay me the big bucks to do their dirty work?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“There’s a rhyme and a reason to how I administer those feedings,” she went on. “The most efficient way to trigger weight gain is to stimulate the body’s production of the stress hormone, cortisol. How do you trigger cortisol? Disrupt someone’s sleeping patterns.”

“Yeah, the sleeping pills. Get them too dependent and they won’t be able to sleep on their own. How does the foot fit into this?”

“The sleeping pills are only half the equation. A longer-term method to induce insomnia is to introduce prions into the bloodstream.”

“What?”

“Prions,” explained Auralee, “are defective proteins that the body can produce, but can’t break down. Once they make it to the brain, they wreak havoc on your sleep center. But you can’t get prions from eating regular food. You have to consume human flesh.”

Damian shuddered. Now he truly knew why Christyn was a vegetarian. “You ever feed me people?”

“Of course not! I need you in top form, not a sleepless zombie. Of course, Will’s always been pretty useless...it’ll be nice, getting to finally replace him.”

Damian winced. “Do you really have to kill him?” He didn’t even like the guy, but he didn’t want him dead, either.

“Hmm...I suppose you’re right. I prefer only to kill the really deserving, anyway. I’ll just keep him doped up on sedatives. If he tries to cry wolf, I’ll have him drug tested.”

“Do...do the customers know?”

“Yes, they know exactly what they’re paying me to do. They pay me for results, not to uphold a moral standard.” As they finished smoking and headed back inside, she said, “Hey, thanks for taking this so well.”

“It was Christyn who taught me the first rule of the service industry: I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine,” he said. “And even before you got me this job, you helped me figure myself out. You’ve always been there as a mentor...sometimes I wish you were my older sister. Nothing’s changed, except now I know, I guess.”


	25. TWENTY-FOUR

**TWENTY-FOUR**

Zeke and Beans wanted a drink after work, so Damian invited them home. He knew either of them would be willing to buy him a drink from a nearby bar; he also knew that once he started drinking, he wouldn’t want to stop until he had no hope of making it out of the bar on his own two feet.

He had been dwelling on what he now thought of to himself as ‘the foot incident’ for a few days and thought he was that long overdue to get as blasted as possible. So, once Auralee took over the bar for the night with Will on expo and Girard in the kitchen, they piled into Zeke’s car and made for the house in Richmond, arriving just as Christyn started dinner.

Alex was out at band practice at the drummer’s dad’s house, so it was just Christyn and the ‘three musketeers,’ as she sometimes called them. While she cooked, Damian the others sat on the back porch with a two-liter of cola and a handle of vodka. He was pouring his strong, with more liquor than he could legally serve a customer and just enough soda to dull the burn as he chucked each one back. By the time Christyn called them in for dinner, he was stumbling.

“Alright, who pissed you off? Spill,” said Christyn halfway through dinner.

“What gave me away?”

“You’ve barely touched your food and you’re wasted.”

“Be honest, I’m a little pissed off at all y’all right now,” he admitted.

“Us? What did we do?” asked Zeke.

“How come none of y’all told me we straight up serving human at the bowling alley?”

“Give you plausible deniability,” Zeke stated plainly.

“Protect your innocence?” offered Sabine.

“Innocence? I ain’t no small child, Beans! I’d have been fine knowing the worst about that place if it meant I didn’t have to touch a chopped off foot with my own hand.”

Christyn paused over her plate, her face falling with remorse. “Oh, Damian...I’m so sorry...I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t think you’d believe me. Plus, you and Aura have become such good friends. I didn’t want to sabotage your friendship.”

“It’s Auralee, she’s unpredictable! I’d believe she literally had sex with elephants if you told me! And as far as our friendship goes, it’s a little late now to turn my back on her just for being a serial killer,” he said. “My boy Weezy sling crystal, and I don’t really agree with that, but that still my boy. We all gotta make a living. And Auralee not even making her own living with this operation, she got money. She redistributing most of it back to our pockets.”

“Hear, hear,” agreed Sabine.

“Why have I never met this Weezy person?” asked Christyn.

“Probably in the lockup. That’s usually why it is when he won’t take my calls.”

Talking about it helped quell his anger, and he was able to hold down dinner as his buzz faded. By the time he and Zeke were clearing while the women had gone to smoke on the patio, he was calm again.

“So, why do you stay?” he asked Zeke. For Christyn and Sabine, it made sense. Christyn had stayed as long as she had to avoid homelessness, and Sabine would be hard-pressed to find another job with a charge on her. But Zeke? With his (as far as Damian knew) squeaky-clean record and his pursuit of higher education?

“Our Aura paying my whole tuition, on top of my check,” said Zeke. “My parents teach middle school, they don’t get paid a whole lot. And I want to save their support for my baby sister, she out here waiting tables to pay for going to school to be a medical technician. My brother got a good job teaching at Rice, but he got his own two kids to put through college. Besides, be nice to get out without any student debt. Even if I gotta have some blood on my hands.”

“I never knew you were a uncle,” said Damian. “Least we got each other.”

“Yeah...well, correction: you and Beans finna have each other.”

“What? You’re leaving?”

“Mhmm. Graduating a semester early. I got offered an internship at Ellis, Ellis and Rockford, with a possibility of being promoted to associate depending on performance.”

Damian’s heart sank. “That’s great news, brother, bring it in!” he said, but he knew he was really gonna miss that guy.

Later on, after Zeke and Sabine had left, Damian was reading a book in bed, propped up on pillows against the headboard while waiting for Christyn to join him. (They still needed to replace the frame, or maybe they’d just leave the box spring on the floor for now.) When she came in, she was holding a bowl of ice cream.

“I thought we could share this,” she said, moving to the bed to straddle his hips. “I was in the mood for something sweet. I think it’s about to be that time of the month. And as for you, well, you never eat your fill when you’re in a mood, and I didn’t want you to have to go to bed hungry.”

Oh, she was good at playing innocent. But that glint in her eyes gave her away.

“You sure that’s your only motive?” He put his book down on the nightstand, took her free hand, and guided it to his belly.

Instinctively, she started to knead and squeeze the soft flesh there. “Can I help it if I want to keep you cute and chubby?” she said. “You did this to me, Damian. You turned me into a deviant. This is all your fault.” She spooned a bite of ice cream into his mouth, helped herself to a smaller spoonful, and ground her crotch against his middle. “Is 230 still the goal?”

“I think so.” He was insanely turned on by the idea of her fattening him up by another 30 pounds. After that...he didn’t know. Maybe he’d want to work out and get back down to 220 or 215...he definitely didn’t see dieting in his future. He liked food way too much. Or, who knew? Maybe he’d reach his goal and want to keep on gaining? He’d set himself smaller goals...235, then 240, then 245...take it in small increments, so he could have gratification from the numbers without impacting his mobility or work performance too much. He knew he wanted to keep working and keep being good at it.

Christyn seemed to pick up on his inner debate. “Hey, it’s okay not to be sure,” she said, sticking the spoon into the ice cream. “You know I’ve come to really enjoy watching you grow...but I will support you, no matter what. Do you want any more?”

“I want more, Chrissy, I’m still kind of hungry.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” She fed him another mouthful and for a moment, nothing mattered. He was able to forget about all the nasty business at the bowling alley.

“Make me fatter, Chrissy,” he sighed.

“I will, sweetheart. I promise.” Everything was bliss and happiness, and the feeling of Christyn’s lovely body on top of his, and the sweet taste of butter pecan ice cream, and the pleasant weight of each bite as it hit his stomach. He never wanted the night to end.

***

“...The local CDC has identified the consumption of red meat as a unifying factor in all cases of the outbreak. Therefore, as of midnight on this date, all businesses in Harris County purveying meat or meat products are to be shut down, pending further investigation…”

Auralee turned off the TV behind the bar. “Alright, you all heard the mayor. Let’s turn everything off and shut everything down, you can all go home for the day and anyone in the lanes who wants food can just get it somewhere else while I figure this all out.”

Virtue strode into the bar area, alarmed. “Auralee, what’s the meaning of this? Operations don’t have to shut down for another six hours!”

“Why, Mother, I would have thought you of all people would want to slow the spread of reverse tapeworm,” said Auralee, pointing at the blank TV screen. “You heard the list of symptoms. Besides, I want a drink before the bars all close.”

Damian helped her finish capping all the liquor bottles and putting them in the cabinet for the night. This didn’t feel real. Then again, he should have seen it coming. Over a month ago, Christyn had been telling him about a new disease spreading in the city. Now it was confirmed to be foodborne…

As they walked to the car, he tried to think of everywhere he’d eaten in the last few weeks. Christyn rarely cooked with meat, seeing as she didn’t eat it...but lately she’d been plating a meat dish for the guys once in a while, usually chicken but once or twice she’d done pork…

As if picking up on what he was thinking, Auralee said, “Relax. You don’t have it.”

“How do you know?”

She popped his car door open for him and asked, “Were you even listening to the list of symptoms? Acute psychosis. A sudden onset of prolonged insomnia. You don’t have either of those. The third symptom is rapid weight gain, which you’re usually doing anyway, but you seem to have hit another plateau. And the number one reason I know you don’t have reverse tapeworm is that I didn’t give it to you.”

Auralee was even more of a maniac on the road than usual, cutting people off, liberally giving the finger, and running over potholes with a new aggression in search of a bar that was open, but it looked like many establishments had had the same idea she had and decided to close early. “Don’t tell me we’re gonna have to wait until we’re back in Fort Bend County,” she growled.

“So you know where this thing came from, then?” he asked, since she seemed to know not only what the disease entailed, but how it was contracted. 

“The secret to the method I use with my special clients was a hard-won one. I actually had to pay $10,000 to obtain it from a colleague of my brother’s. As such, I charge $30,000 for these demented feeders to opt into the program. As transparent as I am about my techniques, I’m sure some of them are applying the knowledge at home, or else turning around and reselling my knowledge for more money. It keeps me from getting swamped with too much work. As lucrative as it is, I know what a toll it can take on my staff. It also keeps the city saturated with disappearances that turn up no corpses. As powerful as my father remains, he can’t protect me from everything. If I ever do come under suspicion, it’s a comfort to know that I won’t be the only suspect. But I warn my clients not to go too hard with the treatment on their own time.” She lit up a cigarette, took a deep pull, and ashed out the window. “It’s entirely possible to come down with a fatal case of insomnia.”

***

Auralee said Damian wouldn’t be out of work for long. A week, tops. In the morning, they would go into the bar and toss all the meat products that would spoil before the madness was over. Then, they’d get a signed statement of compliance from the mayor and reopen running a strictly vegetarian menu.

Auralee was wrong.

The morning after the initial announcement, the mayor came back on TV to issue a shelter-in-place order for the county. All jobs that could be done remotely were to have employees work from home, and all public bars and entertainment venues were to close. Grocery stores would reopen once they had pulled their meat products. Non-food stores would remain open, but were limited to a maximum occupancy of one customer per ten square feet of floor space at a time, and were subject to an 8 PM curfew. People were urged to remain indoors, but permitted to leave the house on foot for certain activities such as exercise, although the use of public fitness equipment was banned to slow the spread of the ‘virus’ in case it could live on surfaces and become transmitted through contact.

All of this was to be effective until midnight of December 31, 2021.

“It’s gonna be okay, dude,” said Auralee as she came up behind the couch, where Damian sat miserably watching the news while Christyn was at work. “I’ll pay your salary out of pocket. Zeke and Beans, too, and Girard.”

“I’d feel bad about taking your charity,” he said. “I have some savings now. It’ll be a while before I have to depend on Chrissy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have more money than I’ll use in a lifetime. It wouldn’t be fair of me not to take care of my faithful staff. Now, what do you want for lunch? Restaurants in Fort Bend are still fully operational.”

He was getting kind of hungry. “Chicken alfredo?” he ventured. “Side Caesar salad? And breadsticks! The biggest order of breadsticks you can get!”

“Sounds like a plan.” She ordered it all from her phone, plus fried mozzarella for herself and chicken parmesan for Alex, and once Alex dragged himself out of bed, they all ate in front of the TV, turning off the news in favor of cartoons.

***

Damian would have thought some time off of work would get him over his latest plateau, but even without the hard labor under Sabine’s supervision, even though Christyn went all out with preparations for Thanksgiving, even though he missed no opportunity to stuff himself until he felt high, his weight was firmly settled at the moment at 202. Maybe it was because a lack of work left him full of manic energy that made him neurotic.

So he cleaned the house, obsessively, three times. Then he rearranged all the bedroom furniture, including the broken bedframe, so he and Christyn would have a better view out the window if she felt like watching the sunrise (he liked it, she only liked it sometimes, so he left it up to her whether the shutters were open). Then he walked to the store a mile or so up the road and dipped into his savings to buy a bunch of cans of spraypaint and started painting a mural on the driveway.

He kept an eye on his blog, but mostly to keep up with anyone he was following. He didn’t post, since he had nothing new to report. As December began, he noticed one day that Sabine was online. Bored out of his mind, he decided to shoot her a quick message.

SpaceCityFeedee2001: sup

Mistress-B: shelter in place gmfu

SpaceCityFeedee2001: sux, wanna come over n smoke some weed

Mistress-B: they’re reserving the right to stop and question all incoming and outgoing traffic and I don’t have a letter from an employer marking me as an essential employee

SpaceCityFeedee: I got u covered

He knew Christyn had a letter like that from the temping company, so she could go in and out of Harris County to work shifts as a dining room server at one of the retirement homes the company serviced. He texted her and got her to forward it to Sabine, and twenty minutes later there was a knock on the door.

“Damn, you drive fast,” he said as he let her in. “I ain’t even got a chance to call the weed guy yet!”

He called the weed guy that Auralee had used the first time she smoked him out. Of course, he took forever, and charged extra for delivery, but with Christyn gone at work and Auralee and Alex out with the band, it was nice to have something to do, along with someone to do it with.

Only...he’d have sworn it was Sabine’s first time smoking weed. Actually, it probably was. She didn’t know how to roll, and he had to teach her how to hit it, too.

A few hits later, he was feeling pretty good, if a little desperate to get some food down. “Hey Beans, I’m gonna make us something to eat. You got any preferences?”

She was spaced out on the couch, staring straight at the TV, speechless.

“Alright, well, I’ll be right back,” he said, and made for the kitchen.

He found some leftover fettuccini Alfredo in the fridge and decided to slap it into a large tortilla and roll it up into a burrito. It still seemed to be missing something, though.

He didn’t spend much time deliberating about it, just did what came to him in the moment. First, he coated the outside of the tortilla in flour, then brushed it with probably half of a beaten egg, and finally covered the whole thing with some breadcrumbs he found in the pantry before throwing it in the oven at 375 degrees. It would probably take about ten minutes for the outer crust to cook. While he waited, he helped himself to a bag of chips that sat half-full on the counter. They were Christyn’s, but he was sure she wouldn’t mind.

Out of his peripheral vision he saw something zoom past the kitchen doorway. If he’d believed in ghosts, he might have been spooked. Poking his head out to investigate, he realized it was Sabine, darting around the house in a way that reminded Damian of his sister’s cat when it was in one of his psycho moods.

Damian used to resent that cat. Lily always seemed to feed it better than her own brother. One of his earliest memories was of lying on his stomach on the filthy carpet of her first apartment at three years old, having a glaring contest with the cat. (He had blinked first, and for the rest of the years he lived there, had been dead set on beating it in a rematch, but he never did.)

“Beans? Are you okay?”

She zipped past him two more times before stopping to stare up at him, her eyes bloodshot, wide, and horrified.

“What’s happening to me?”

“I think you’re having a bad trip.”

He followed her around for a few minutes to make sure she wouldn’t get up to any trouble. He had only heard about bad trips before, never had one himself. Weed always made him feel tingly, happy, relaxed. Sabine was clearly not relaxed, and as she started towards the staircase, he caught her around the waist and said, “Okay, no stairs.” In her neurotic state, he was worried about her getting onto the second, or, God forbid, the third floor, and jumping off a balcony. “How do you feel?” he ventured.

All she said was, “Refried.”

He took her back to the living room. “I’m cold. Why am I cold?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Beans. Here, does this help?” He sat her down on the couch and wrapped her tightly in a blanket.

“Yeah.”

About that time, the burrito was done, so he went to the kitchen to get it and soon settled back on the couch with Sabine, placing the plate between them with the burrito cut in half. “Do you want some of this? It might help you come down.”

“N-no! I mean. No.” He was a little taken aback by her panic at first, but eventually, it hit him: here she was, a normie having a bad panic attack in the house of the weight gain enthusiast from work. Of course she didn’t want to eat anything. She probably thought he had sinister plans for her.

“Aight, suit yourself, more for me.”

Eventually, Sabine fell asleep, and when she woke up, she looked much better. The color had returned to her cheeks and she was smiling once again. Still wrapped up in the blanket, she pressed herself against him. “You’re warm. It’s nice.”

“Feeling more yourself again? Don’t feel the need to run around like my sister’s psycho cat?”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“I don’t like her.”

“I don’t like my family either,” Sabine confessed.

“You never talk about them.”

“Yeah, well, they’re not worth the breath. They’re rich, but I’m not interested in their money. Old plantation family, nowadays a bunch of racist, neoconfederate nut-jobs. I’m pretty sure my older brother Lee is in the Klan, but who knows? I left home at 18 and I minimize contact with them whenever possible. Of course, I’m sure they’ll officially disinherit me once me and Zeke get married, but I could care less.”

“Wait, you and Zeke getting married?”

“Well, we talked about it. If we do, it has to be after he gets me off for my assault charge, to avoid a conflict of interest. He said he’d take over my case once he graduates, so I can fire my idiot public defender. And it has to be before he runs for District Attorney, to avoid a media shitstorm.”

This was all a lot to unload. She was probably still feeling the effects of the weed. He thought about telling her more about Lily, just so they would be on equal footing, but in the end, he didn’t. 

“Hey,” said Sabine, “do you have anything else to eat?”

“Yeah, hang on, there’s still some chips.”

When Christyn came home, a little damp from the rain outside, he was trying to help Sabine eat chips without spilling them all over herself. “You wouldn’t believe the day I had at work--oh, hello, Sabine!”

“Hey Chrissy,” Sabine greeted her. “You wouldn’t believe the day we had either. I swear I had a near death experience.”

“You what?”

Damian smiled sheepishly. “Long story short: Beans ain’t allowed to smoke weed no more.”

***

As week 1 of the shelter-in-place order came to an end, Damian found himself flooded with commissions for sketches. He had posted a few of his drawings on his blog, and a few days ago, someone had asked him to draw some anime character they liked in his style, offering him $40 in compensation. He guessed it was a pity thing, as he had posted earlier about how his job had been shut down due to the ‘virus,’ but after that first commission, he was getting more and more requests, so people must have thought he was good.

Christyn had become more active online, too, as she had a number of followers in the Harris County area and lately they were blowing up her inbox with questions, as if she might know the answers. To be fair, she did come across as smart like that.

One morning off, he saw her setting up for a live stream in the living room, propping up a webcam she had attached to her phone against a stack of books while she tested it. “You about to stream? Can I watch?” asked Damian.

“Sure, you can watch! From the desktop in the home office.”

“Aww, why?”

“Because…” She got up, walked over to him, and pulled him in for a kiss, fingernails biting into his sides through the thin material of his shirt. “You’ll be a distraction.”

She just had to get him all worked up. Well, hopefully there’d be a reward in it for him if he was good.

He retreated to the office, fired up the slightly outdated computer, and logged in just in time for Christyn’s stream to start. She had angled the camera to cut off the top half of her face, and leaned in with her elbows on her knees to address the viewers.

“Hey guys! Winter here. I’ve been getting a lot of questions about this COE thing, and since humans are a part of the environment, a disease of the human population counts as an environmental issue in my book, so I decided to answer them live rather than posting the answers, because there’s too many of them, and I also have some pretty strong opinions about some of the things y’all have asked, and I don’t want to, like, end up on an NSA watch list.

“Anyway, I’m gonna go ahead and jump into it. First question I’m getting a lot of is, how do you know if you or someone close to you has the disease?

“Okay, so I did a little research into the outbreak, and it looks like in all confirmed cases, autopsies identified a buildup of foreign matter in the brain. So really, the only way to tell for sure is if you open up their brain and take a look. Since that’s just not practical, let’s take a look at the other noted symptoms: psychosis, rapid weight gain, and insomnia that eventually leads to a shutdown of the body, also known as death. At this point, you guys, there’s something we need to talk about.

“I notice a lot of y’all calling this thing the ‘reverse tapeworm,’ which is not only incorrect, but it gives off the impression that the associated weight gain is the hallmark symptom, when it’s really more likely a product of stress. I mean, I’d be stressed too if all of the sudden, I couldn’t sleep for three weeks on end. Look, guys, its official name is Carnivorous-Onset Encephalitis, and even that is inaccurate, as far as I can tell, but it’s better than just calling it ‘weight gain disease.’ The sad thing is I can already see this thing causing stigma and alienation against individuals of size and a rise in diet culture. I mean...okay, it was pretty funny when I drove into town and saw some dude jogging in nothing but bike shorts and a plague doctor mask. But it’s looking like weight gain is a late-stage symptom here, so trying to lose weight won’t save you. Furthermore, if someone you know recently gained a significant amount of weight without exhibiting insomnia or irrational behavior, they’re almost definitely fine. You don’t know what’s going on in their life. Maybe they just started a new antidepressant. Maybe they’re recovering from an eating disorder. Maybe they did it on purpose. And if someone you know has always been heavyset, just leave them the fuck alone about it, especially now. Hang on, I’m getting an influx of new questions…”

She picked up her phone and skimmed them. “Okay, unsolicited comments about my own body which I’m going to ignore...oh! Dreamer 52 asked: ‘Why would anyone gain weight on purpose?’” She faced the camera. The stream didn’t show her eyes, but Damian imagined they looked mischievous on top of her sexy smile. “Have you guys ever heard of this thing called feedism?”

From there, she launched into a retelling of the events of her (their) life over the past year or so, omitting Damian’s name, of course. It was sweet, hearing her tell their love story, even if it did include two instances of the phrase, ‘so there I was, terrified, staring down the barrel of a gun.’

“But let’s get back on track, shall we? I have here a list I printed of the names of the 42 people who have died of COE so far.” She held it up for the camera. “Screenshot this for posterity, loves, and in case you want to fact-check. Now, if you look them up on social media, you’ll find they all come from extremely rich households. Now, the CDC has been saying the disease comes from eating red meat, but poor people eat red meat, too. Most Americans do.

“I think, if you know someone who’s recently started acting erratic or out of character, who’s been experiencing insomnia, who’s got upwards of a million dollars to their family name, that’s when you know you should get ready to say your goodbyes. But don’t worry about keeping your distance: if you look at the list again and look up these people, none of them knew each other. It doesn’t look like this is something being transmitted from person to person. In fact, I wonder if this isn’t a disease at all, but a new poison that’s entered the market, obviously an expensive one, that these rich folks are using to collect on life insurance policies they’ve taken out on their spouses. Especially since, unless every other county in America is lying, this sickness is contained to Harris County, which seems to indicate a local supplier. Ask me, we shouldn’t have the county on lockdown. We should be quarantining the rich, investigating them alone, and jailing them if we catch them in the act. Hang on, I just got a few more questions.” She checked her phone once more. “Okay, savethewildlife99 says: ‘I live by the gulf, and I noticed that the water is looking much cleaner. For the first time in what feels like years I saw a bee. With Harris County shut down is this possible proof that humanity is the virus?’ Okay, I just want to make sure you know what a dumbass you sound like, right? Humanity isn’t going anywhere. Only 42 people are dead. Oh, hang on, email alert...okay, 43 people. But that’s really not a lot. The thing that’s ground to a halt is capitalism. To say that humanity is a blight on the Earth is the first step into a mindset of eugenics, which I shouldn’t have to say is a bad thing!

“Okay, an anonymous user said, ‘If only 42 people have died, why are we treating this like a global pandemic?’ I don’t know, dude.” She flopped back on the couch, obviously getting tired. “Probably because weight gain is a symptom and for some reason, society hates fat people.

“Alright, SpaceCityFeedee2001 asked, ‘You mean quarantines ain’t those little oranges?’” She burst out laughing.

Damian blushed. It had been a serious inquiry!

“Finally, Mistress-B says: ‘I work in the affected area and my job has been compromised. My employer has promised me a check for lost wages, but most of my income comes not from my hourly wage, but from tips. I still am worried about personal expenses and my landlord has posted a notice on our doors to notify us he will still be demanding rent. Any advice?’ Oh, honey...let me tell you how to stage a rent strike...”

Thirty minutes later, she was finally done. Damian heard her footsteps in the hall before she entered the home office, holding a box of chocolates and wearing nothing but a lacy black bra and panties that he’d never seen before. “When did you go shopping?”

“I said I’d gone into town.”

She fed him the whole box while sitting in his lap, leaving his hands free to explore and caress her delicious curves before she took him in the office chair. As things were winding down, he said, “You know this ‘disease’ is just rich assholes feeding each other human flesh, right?”

“What, now?”

He told her everything Auralee had told him. She shook her head and said, “I’m not even shocked anymore.”


	26. TWENTY-FIVE

**TWENTY-FIVE**

Even though it was only the beginning of December, Christyn had decked out the house with Christmas decorations and even sprung for a real tree in the living room. Whenever she wasn’t at work, she’d be baking some sort of holiday treat. Every night, the house smelled of it--or was that her perfume? Sometime between the shutdown of the Capital and the end of her relationship with Jesse, she had switched from her usual citrusy one to a different one that reminded Damian distinctly of cake, which hadn’t helped him during all the months he spent trying to hide his secret wish that she would take him to her bedroom and cram him full of sweets until he could barely move.

But no, that perfume smelled more like vanilla than anything else. These smells were warm and wintery with notes of apple and pumpkin spice, giving him something to get excited about every night as he waited for dinner.

He wasn’t the only one loading up on Christyn’s fabulous cooking. Since Alex had gotten back, he had been averaging five pounds a week. (Damian knew this because Auralee was a huge blabbermouth when she was drunk.) He seemed singularly dedicated to putting the weight on, too. He wanted to make up for what he’d done, though Auralee’s very public displays of affection were easy proof that he was forgiven. The only times she seemed to take her hands off him were if she was pouring herself another drink, or dealing with a phone call.

She was doing both one morning while the other three sat down to breakfast. Damian still had yet to wash a load of shot glasses, as he had been busy with his art lately, so she resorted to pouring herself a soup cup full of vodka at the kitchen counter, where she took big gulps of it as she spoke to her clients.

“Yes, Mr. Huebner, I have your order ready. I can go and deliver it sometime in the late afternoon today. Now, I don’t have your new address in my records…

“Hello, Ms. McCready! This is Auralee Kingston. I just want to let you know that I received your email. Unfortunately, due to high demand, I can only offer each of my customers one box at a time. But if you could trim down your order and send it to me, I’ll drop it off anytime after 3 PM today!

“Hello, Mr. Hale! I received your email; I suppose Ms. McCready must have passed you my number…? Ah, Mr. Huebner, I see. Now, I’m sorry to say that due to the high volume of business I do, I can only offer you a single box of product at a time. I don’t know if Mr. Huebner told you, but it’s also $30,000 to opt into the program...ah, wonderful! I’ll be by at around 11 to show you what I have so you can make your selections. If you’ll just give me your address?”

Once she got off the phone, Auralee joined the others at the table with her soup cup of vodka refilled. “Unbelievable. There’s a county-wide meat ban and these reckless idiots still want to buy from me, despite being warned against it by the CDC.”

“On the plus side, the death toll seems to be tapering off from its boom last month,” said Christyn. “City officials are saying the lockdown might end early. Possibly before Christmas, even!”

“Good, I miss Zeke and Beans,” said Damian.

“Well, I guess I’d better get going. I need to pick up a couple of things from the bowling alley, and I’ll need some help with the heavy stuff. Damian, want to make fifteen grand?”

He shrugged as he mopped up the rest of his egg yolks with a piece of toast. “Sure, just don’t make me touch any of the you-know-whats. Or at least let me have some gloves.”

When they got to the bowling alley, Auralee spent several minutes digging through the drawers in the kitchen and behind the bar. “I thought for sure I left them here,” she muttered to herself.

“What are you looking for?”

“My set of calipers,” she said. “It’s a metal instrument about yay big, looks like two hooks facing each other…I thought I might pick it up while I was here, Alex and I might want to have some fun when I get home from my route.”

“Oh.” He pulled the instrument out of the inside pocket of Christyn’s sweater. Well, he supposed it was his sweater now: Christyn had told him to keep it because it ‘looked better’ on him, despite the fact that he couldn’t get it closed. Or maybe that was why she said that. “Please tell me you washed that before I used it to open beers.”

“How in the dickens did you manage to open a beer with this?”

“Why were you keeping your sex toys in the bar?”

“It’s not a sex toy, not exactly. Maybe I’ll teach Chrissy how to use it, and she can give you the demonstration. Now, we need a cooler and probably two big buckets of ice from the machine.”

Damian handled that part and let Auralee load the meat into the cooler once they had it in the backseat. She grabbed a stack of the blank cardboard boxes they gave people for leftover pizza, threw it in the car, and off they were.

Their first stop was a sprawling estate house in a gated, guarded community with huge manicured lawns and fancy, decorated street lamps of dark metal with a faux green finish. “This is the Hale residence. They’re my newest clients,” said Auralee. “Here, fold one of these up for me.” She handed him a pizza box to assemble and once he handed it back to her, she went in the back and filled it with a sampling of selections from the freezer. “Normally in neighborhoods like this, you need a special permit to solicit door-to-door...but that’s not exactly what we’re doing here, is it? We were invited. You ready?” She led the way up the path to the house, where Damian knocked on the door, since her hands were full.

A tall, athletic blond man in workout shorts and a white shirt answered. Damian noticed he was wearing one of those fancy techno watches that monitored your heart rate. Auralee had spoken on the phone to a Mr. Hale...Damian guessed he was one of those feeders who preferred fitness for himself while fattening up his partner. Damian had come across many of those on the internet, but they were mostly women.

“You must be Ms. Kingston?”

“Mr. Hale, I presume?”

“Please, Mr. Hale was my father. Call me Fred.”

“Then you call me Auralee.” She didn’t introduce Damian, for which he was grateful. The last thing he wanted was to be mixed up with people like this.

“Please, come with me.” Fred led the way to the living room, where Mrs. Hale was arranging platters of meat and cheese cubes, crackers, dip, cookies and mini cupcakes on the coffee table. Damian couldn’t tell, but it looked like a few of the sweets were missing.

“Helen, did you get into the snacks I set out for the guests?”

“I couldn’t help myself,” she admitted shyly.

“That’s quite alright, my assistant and I have already eaten,” said Auralee, much to Damian’s relief. He wasn’t keen on eating anything from the house of someone who planned on hijacking his wife’s--what was the word for it again? Oh yeah: bodily autonomy.

Helen Hale was an attractive woman. Like her husband, she was blonde, but had dark eyelashes that framed a pair of striking green eyes. Her figure was a lot similar to Christyn’s in proportion, curvy with prominent hips and a chest that could almost compete with them, though she was taller, probably closer to Damian’s own height. If he had to make a guess, he’d say she weighed about 175. Unlike Fred, she had dressed up to receive guests. She wore a pink sweater set, a floral pencil skirt, kitten heels, and a string of big pearls around her neck that had to be worth more than most people’s rent for several months.

“Why don’t you two sit down while I show you what I have?” said Auralee, and with that, she took control of the room. She turned off the TV as the wealthy young couple sat, Helen looking guilty as she snatched another cupcake. There was still plenty of room on the coffee table, so Auralee set the cardboard box down and began to show her product. “Here we have your New York strips, petit filets,” she rattled off, holding up individually vacuum-packed cuts of meat for them to appraise. “When those aren’t big enough, we chop them up into the steak burgers. Here, take that in your hand, Fred. That’s a two-pack of half-pound patties, and these are better than hamburger meat. Do you like to cook?”

“Oh, he’s a passionate home chef. Perhaps too passionate,” Helen answered for him.

“Bet,” said Damian. Helen turned red and crossed her arms over its stomach as if to hide its size. Auralee glared at him. “I mean, this is such a lovely house. It must come with a state of the art kitchen.” That was a good save, right?

“This all looks good, honey,” said Helen, “but aren’t you worried about the reverse tapeworm?”

“You really believe that malarkey about it coming from meat? Everyone eats meat,” said Fred, which seemed to be enough to convince her.

“Well, those are much better than regular hamburger meat. You can cook them medium rare, rare even, and she won’t get sick. And last but not least, we have the ribs, for barbecuing,” said Auralee. These looked distinctly human, but Fred had probably already heard the secret already from Mr. Huebner, and as for Helen...well, she didn’t come across as very bright. “Fred, if you’d like to join me in the kitchen so you can make your selections and fill out some paperwork?"

“Certainly.”

“Won’t you stay here and entertain the lady?” Auralee said to Damian before she and Fred disappeared around the corner to do business.

Damian turned the TV back on and started flipping channels. “Anything you want to watch? Sci-fi? Romance? My girl likes the sci-fi channel.”

“Some comedy would be nice.”

He surfed until he found the standup channel. She laughed a little at the comedian on the screen, but still looked troubled. “You good, Ms. Helen?”

“I know how it must look, my husband keeping up his fitness routine while I blow up like a balloon.”

“Aw, c’mon, Ms. Helen. You look great. If you weren’t so tall, you’d look like my girl, and I’m lucky that I got the most beautiful woman in the world. But your husband pretty tall, too, so you look just right with him.”

He was trying to offer her comfort, but it was all bouncing off her. “I had my weight under control for a while, I was going to the gym...my husband prefers weight training, but I was doing cardio...but now, with public facilities all being closed…”

He decided to try a different angle. “Can’t you go for a jog outside?”

“I prefer to use the machines.”

“Oh! There was a gym at my old apartment complex. I could give you the addy real fast, and the gate’s broken so you don’t gotta worry bout a code.”

“That’s quite alright.” She wrinkled her nose. “And thank you, for saying I’m good looking. You’re not so bad yourself. You have a nice face. Lose 30 pounds, and you’d be quite the looker. Oh...but it would never work.”

“What would never work?”

“Our affair,” said Helen. “Maybe if you were a student of medicine or law...hell, even business. But a saleslady’s assistant?”

Damian suddenly felt rage boil up from within. This was the most entitled thing he had ever heard. Had he not spent the last few minutes talking about his girlfriend? And even if he had been single, what made this woman think it was her call to either have him or cast him to the side at her liking?

It was a lucky thing that Auralee and Fred emerged from the kitchen before he had the chance to speak. “Wait for me in the car, bud, while I fix Mr. Hale his box.”

As they drove off for their next stop, Damian said, “What took you so long?”

“I take it Helen wasn’t pleasant company?”

“She was awful!”

“Yeah, that’s rich people for you,” said Auralee.

“But you’re different. You helped me, you helped Chrissy get on her feet. I mean, sure, you are super yikes in some ways. Fuck’s sake, I’m riding around in an SUV with you and we’re selling human meat. But you’d rather screw the rich so you can take care of us little guys.”

She chuckled. “It’s been a while since you’ve been ‘little,’ though, hasn’t it? And sorry for the wait, by the way. I was getting Fred to sign an NDA stating he won’t name me as a supplier to other feeders. Luckily, I found out he doesn’t know what’s in the meat. I lied and told him it was full of weight gain hormones. I need to be able to control this thing. My last method kept me clear of suspicion for murder, but it also got the city shut down.”

“What happens if he tells anyway?”

“Then he’s responsible for paying me the equivalent of the entry fee."

“What do you mean, equivalent?”

Auralee smirked. “I’m not charging them in money.”

“What are you charging?” Damian was almost afraid to ask.

“Ten pounds on the grand. And the poor fucker didn’t even read the fine print.”

He gaped. “$30,000...so he’d have to gain 300 pounds?!”

“Or have me sue him for breach of contract. Wouldn’t that be a trial to make the news? Say, you’re getting better at math.”

The Huebners lived quite out of the way, just a little past Pearland. The long drive had Damian restlessly squirming in his seat, asking again and again, “Are we there yet?” until Auralee had had quite enough.

“If you ask me again, I’m going to sedate you.” He was pretty sure she was joking, but he didn’t want to risk it in case she wasn’t.

Luckily, things at the Huebners’ went quickly, as Mr. Huebner had sent in his order and the only thing he had to do besides accept the delivery was sign the new NDA.

Before they hit Molly McCready’s house, Auralee pulled into a little tex-mex drive thru. “You hungry, buddy? It’s just about lunch time.”

“Yeah, I could eat.”

“What do you want?”

“Can you get me a couple of those chicken and black bean burritos, no cheese, extra avocado?” He really wanted the beef and bean ones, but he knew restaurants weren’t serving red meat right now. He supposed he should be more worried about driving around with Auralee during a shelter-in-place order, selling meat during a meat ban, but it was Auralee. She had favor with the cops. Besides, not even the cops were out, it seemed. He had never seen the roads so empty.

She pulled up to the window. “Yeah, can I get two chicken black bean burritos, extra avocado, all the cheese on the side, and a large iced tea with four creamers?”

“Don’t you want anything?”

“I’ll be fine.”

She paid at the window and they handed her the bag of food and the drink. Before she even got back on the road, she took the side of cheese sauce, drank it like a shot, and handed Damian the rest of the bag while she swilled liquor from a flask she’d been keeping in her handbag. It was the grossest thing he had ever seen anyone do.

At Molly and Ann’s house, Auralee said, “Molly and I have some paperwork to go over...Ann, why don’t you and Damian step outside for some fresh air? I’ve had the poor thing cooped up in the car all day.”

Ann heaved herself off the couch and let Damian take the lead. He held the door for her as wide as he could push it, but it was still a tight squeeze for her through the doorway. Still, in her red wrap dress with her hair sprayed into big beauty-queen curls, she commanded a sort of air of majesty, the vision only tainted by the fact that he knew exactly what Molly was doing to her.

“I don’t like those two being in there alone,” said Ann as the two of them started off down the block, Damian having to slow his pace considerably for her. “One of my greatest fears is that Molly leaves me for one of these skinny-minis.”

“I got a feeling she won’t,” said Damian. “But we can go back inside if you want.”

“That’s okay. I’d like to make it to the end of the block and back while I still can.”

Indeed, Ann was struggling with each step. According to Auralee, her weight was ‘entering the late 6’s,’ which seemed to imply a future climb into the ‘early 7’s.’ Auralee figured her days of mobility were numbered, and with Molly keeping her sedated as much as she did, Damian had to agree with her. “Are you worried about losing mobility?” he asked.

“I’m terrified,” she confessed. “I try my best to diet, but somehow I’ve still managed to double my weight since I’ve been with Molly. So I get discouraged and end up just drinking the calories I’ve managed to cut out of my food intake. I think I had a pint of whiskey before you two came just to feel normal. And every time Molly takes me to Auralee’s bar, I drink until I black out.”

Damian wished he could tell her the truth about the blackouts, but if he snitched on Molly, he’d have to snitch not only on Auralee, but himself. He decided to take the conversation on a tangent: “Have you thought about surgery?”

“Molly would never allow it. She thinks all doctors are quacks.”

He wasn’t surprised to hear it. “Do you think she’s the best person for you, then? I’m not saying you should have surgery, in fact, one of my best friends had it and it ruined her life. But one of the most important things in a relationship is being with someone who lets you make your own choice about your body, yeah?”

“Oh, but I could never leave Molly. We love each other!”

Christyn used to have that same attitude about Jesse, and look what happened. He didn’t think he was going to get through to Ann today. But there was hope.

They had made it about four houses down the block when Damian locked eyes with another plus-sized beauty. She was sunning herself in a pool chair, wearing a crop top and shorts despite the winter chill, sipping a cocktail while her husband mowed the lawn. As she spotted Damian, she removed her sunglasses, got up, and headed straight toward him. Once she was close enough, he recognized her as the girl Auralee had lost her first boyfriend to. “My, my, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again after the Rodeo! Damian, right? And I see you’ve decided to trade up. I bet you and my Sid would have a lot to talk about over a beer. Oh, forgive my rudeness, I haven’t even introduced myself to your girlfriend. Linda McGowan, Miss…?”

“Ann, but I think you’re making a mistake,” said Ann, meeting Linda halfway for a handshake. “Damian’s sweet and all, but I don’t bat for that team. He’s just helping out the saleslady.”

“The saleslady?”

“Linda!” Auralee had finished up with Molly and hurried up the block to where the other three stood. “You’d better not be tormenting my assistant!"

“Well, well, if it isn’t Auralee Kingston, the original American class traitor,” said Linda, her beautiful face curling into a cruel smile. "Wrong use of the word, but okay," said Auralee. “So, he’s your assistant when you’re out peddling door to door like a Girl Scout?”

“One must maintain an air of professionalism in front of the clientele,” said Auralee.

“Yeah, and we’re not selling door to door, you need a permit for that,” added Damian. Auralee elbowed him in the ribs on ‘accident’ before placing an arm around him. She was a little late to remember that as far as the McGowans knew, they were dating, but he was surprised she remembered at all.

“She didn’t hurt you, darling, did she?” asked Auralee.

“Please,” said Linda. “The only thing hurting him is settling for you. Making sales calls, tending bar...next we’re going to run into you shining shoes. It’s embarrassing!”

Sid had turned off the lawnmower and come over to investigate. “Ladies, let’s not have a catfight in the middle of the lawn! Linda, look at poor Aura, if you swung at her, we’d have to call her an ambulance.”

“Sid, cut the casual body shaming,” said Auralee. “I didn’t come here to do you any harm, I’m just a humble entrepreneur trying to make it in these uncertain times.” Despite her little ‘I-come-in-peace’ speech, she had that look on her face that Damian had come to know meant she was up to some mischief.

“Alright, then, humor me. What is it you’re selling?”

Auralee beamed. “Meat! All the best cuts of meat you can imagine, flash-frozen and never thawed to lock in freshness, 100% free range and organic! I’ve got filets, New York strips, burgers, ribs, ground chuck, bacon, the whole works! You like to cook, as I recall. Well, I’m running a new customer special: if you buy more than four shipments a month from me, I’ll waive your opt-in fee. You’re really gonna like what I’ve got, Sid. Damian, won’t you walk Ann back to her house and meet me back here? Sid, let me just move the car, and then I’ll show you my wares!”

It looked like Auralee wasn’t opposed to adding one more body to the count.


	27. TWENTY-SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for implied incest.

**TWENTY-SIX**

The mayor was confirming on the news that in light of the COE death toll screeching to a halt, the lockdown was going to be lifted by December 23, just in time for Christmas. Christyn was watching in the living room with captions, the sound off so Alex could tune his guitar as he sat on the armrest of the sofa. She thought it was a little suspicious that the mayor was now in a hurry to reopen the city, after she had so urgently shut it down, but who wanted to complain about good news? “Hey, that’s great! You and the band can play shows in the city limits again!”

Alex didn’t answer or even look at her. Well, he answered if a grunt counted.

“Chrissy, could you join me for a second?” The call came from Auralee. Christyn dutifully padded into Auralee’s room, feeling momentarily once more like the obedient barback as she pushed her way through the door behind which her friend lounged in her rumpled bed, swilling a glass of red wine.

“Alex seems out of sorts today,” Christyn informed her.

“Oh, he’s like that all the time when I make him take a fast day nowadays. Helps to slow the metabolism. He used to be much better at it, but lately he’s gotten accustomed to eating generous amounts at all hours of the day. I’m sure I’ll catch him cheating before this evening.”

“Damn, if I tried to starve Damian for a whole day, I’m sure he’d take me to court for domestic abuse!”

“Then it’s lucky for you that he can’t call the cops.”

“Well, I’d never dream of doing it!” snapped Christyn.

“And that’s why he keeps hitting plateaus. But enough about the boys. I didn’t call you in here to talk about them. We’re not making any money or passing any Bechdel tests, here.”

“Then what do you need?”

“I need someone to come up to the bowling alley with me before we reopen and help me with the inventory.”

“Can’t Damian--?”

“Someone who’s good at math.”

“Fair point.” Christyn didn’t know how booksmart Sabine might be, and Zeke would be busy preparing for his final exams. Auralee had once confessed to being a horrible student herself: she had won a scholarship from a prestigious New York university for her philanthropic work with the Houston food bank, but had returned home in disgrace after getting expelled with failing marks in every class, a consequence of her hard-partying lifestyle. As for Damian...he was the sweetest boy, he really was, and a hard worker, too, but she wasn’t altogether certain that he could count to twelve. “I have to go to work tonight, but I’m free all day tomorrow.”

Christyn left early for her shift with ABC, which allowed her to take the scenic route past the fast-food place where Damian used to work. Only this time, when she passed it, she noticed all the windows were smashed. Yikes. As she drove further into town, she saw a staggering number of other establishments ransacked, mostly grocery stores and one liquor store. It was no wonder the mayor had decided to cut the lockdown short. The closure of most stores was bound to lead to looting, as not everybody could afford to have their food delivered from the next county over. “Good for them,” she muttered to herself, thinking of all the working class people, her people, who had chosen to break and enter rather than starve. Big businesses could afford to absorb the cost of the damages.

She was assigned today as a shift lead at The Estates at Westchase, an upscale retirement home about ten minutes off the beltway. She arrived a few minutes before her scheduled in-time and collected from the catering office the clipboard of paperwork she would need for signing in the other temps. There were only five others from ABC today, the rest of the staff on the clock being employees of the facility itself. It wasn’t long before the first of Christyn’s colleagues arrived. “Oh, here I am,” said a woman wearing the black shirt and slacks that singled her out as an ABC contractor in a sea of retirement home workers dressed in blue. With one manicured nail, she pointed to her name on the list in Christyn’s hands: Lilith Cable.

Where had Christyn heard that name before?

Lilith was built more like a runway model than a server, rail thin with no curves to speak of. That she wasn’t a model already could probably be credited to the fact she wasn’t taller, although she was still tall enough that Christyn had to look up to make eye contact, standing herself at only 5’2”. She had jet-black hair tied back into a ponytail, though her glossy curls looked as though they were testing the tensile strength of the elastic band that held them together at the nape of her neck. She wore deep berry lipstick and had done her eyeshadow elaborately in shades of blue and green that popped against her light brown complexion. Christyn might have considered her quite attractive had she not been so worrying thin; as it was, she was wondering whether the woman’s delicate wrists could support a beverage tray. And those eyes...deep brown and seductive, and sparkling with a glint of deviance that looked so, so familiar…

Once all the temps had arrived and been signed in, Christyn flipped through her papers to see what their stations would be. “Alright, Kelsey and Jennifer, you have Dining Room A, Caleb and Derek, Dining Room B. Lilith, you’re with me on the fourth floor.”

As they entered the elevator, Lilith said, “You can call me Lily. I’m only Lilith when I’m in trouble.”

“That’s where I remember your name from! Jesse mentioned you worked for this company!” Christyn blurted.

“Don’t remind me of that horrible man,” said Lily. Christyn blushed.

“Sorry. And how rude of me. I’m Christyn.”

She led the way to the prep area, wheeling in the cart that held all the food they would be serving. “Have you ever worked in memory care before?”

“No, this is actually my first time here.”

“Well, that’s probably why they put you up here, and paired you with me. Don’t worry, I’ve done this several times,” said Christyn as she set up the steam table. Tonight on the menu was grilled salmon with a lemon cream sauce, penne pomodoro, and steamed broccoli, with sugar-free chocolate pudding for dessert. “The nurses will take care of the residents, for the most part. All we have to do is serve and clear. We have twenty or so residents on this floor, with four mechanicals. Their plates are pre-prepped in the warmer. I’ll show you who they are.”

“Mechanicals?”

“People who need their food chopped up small so they don’t choke.”

“Maybe you should serve, and I’ll clear?”

“Nah, c’mon, you need to learn in case you want to come back and work here, and not all the shift leads have my patience!”

Soon, the residents started to trickle into the dining room, and Christyn introduced Lily to each one--well, the ones that would speak to her--as she set down their usual water or juice.

While she was serving dinner, Lily close at her heels, one of the residents, Mr. Green, perked up upon her approach with his plate. Clutching his fork in anticipation with one trembling hand, he said, “Oh boy, Ellie, what did you make tonight?”

“I made you a nice fish with some noodles and some greens, see?” She placed the plate before him and his face fell with disappointment.

“No meatloaf? You know I’ve been dying for some of your meatloaf.”

“Harvey, Martha Stewart said you have to eat fish to stay healthy. Now, I’ll hear no more fuss!” she said sternly before walking away to check on the other diners.

When she returned to the prep area to fetch a pitcher of water, Lily asked, “Who’s Ellie?”

“Eleanor, his late wife.”

“Oh. Sad,” said Lily. “Hey, have you ever considered being an actress?”

“It was never on my radar. I used to be pretty poor,” Christyn confessed. “That’s why I got into restaurant work. Easy money, sometimes on the same day. And now, well, I’d be a little old to learn. Besides, I see myself more as a writer, anyway. I have some ideas, I just never have time to write them down. But what about you? You’re a pretty young girl. A talent agent would be foolish not to at least give you an interview.”

“Oh, don’t flatter me. I’m thirty-six!”

“No way! If you had sat down at my bar, I would have carded you.”

They talked some more while they were cleaning up. Christyn learned that Lily stayed in Spring with her husband, who had dropped her off, but since she had another shift in Houston tomorrow, she planned to stay in a hotel and have him pick her up after she clocked out. She’d forgotten, though, that most businesses were closed due to the lockdown, and she couldn’t find one that was open within the city limits.

“You can stay at my house for the night,” Christyn offered. “There’s plenty of space, and I make a killer breakfast. It’s a bit of a ways out of the way, but cab fares have plummeted recently, and you’ll spend way less getting back here than you would have on a hotel.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose on you.”

“It’ll be no trouble.”

“Well, if you insist. But let me thank you by buying you a drink!”

Christyn took Lily to the bar Damian had brought her to for her birthday. As promised, Lily bought the first round...then the second. At that point, Christyn decided she had better stop drinking if she had any hope of driving home and waking up in the morning to help Auralee, so when Lily ordered two more rounds of tequila shots with water backs, she gave Lily all the tequila and drank all the water herself. She felt bad for being deceptive...but it wasn’t like she planned on taking advantage of Lily.

As they arrived at Christyn’s house and crossed the threshold, Lily slurred, “I feel like there’s something on both our minds. Tell me, how do you know Jesse Markham?”

So, she was ready to talk, now that she was drunk.

“I was his former submissive.”

“Me too, me too.” Lily nearly tripped on her way through the door, but Christyn caught her and guided her to the living room sofa.

“You said he mentioned my name?”

“He did, he did,” said Christyn. “When he spoke about you, though, there was no animosity. It almost seemed like you were still friends.”

“We were, for the longest time.”

“What opened your eyes?”

“What opened yours?” Lily countered.

Christyn understood. Lily probably wanted to know that she wasn’t secretly an agent of Jesse’s. She knew she had the same paranoid fears creep in from time to time. “He attacked my best friend.”

“Similar experience,” said Lily. “He got my little brother arrested. I didn’t find out until later.”

“Why would he go to such lengths just to hurt you?” asked Christyn.

“It was never about me at all, I don’t think. My brother’s crime was that he was getting too much attention from Jesse’s at-the-time sub. He never told me much about her. ‘Kitten,’ he called her…”

About that time, Damian came down the stairs. “Hey Chrissy, I--” He froze as he locked eyes with Lily.

Her face lit up. “Little brother! It’s been too long!”

Christyn stood and stretched. “I need a shower. I’ll leave you two to catch up?”

Damian wasn’t downstairs for too long before he slipped into the shower behind Christyn. She leaned back into his body, allowing him to run his hands up her waist and lather up her breasts with soap. Weeks away from work had softened the calluses of his hands, and she relished the sensation of his meaty palms and thick fingers working against the most sensitive parts of her skin. She turned around to kiss him, pulling back to admire his round, cherubic face and tease his pretty, jet-black curls with her fingers. It really was a wonder his resemblance to his sister had escaped her at first. Lily was a bit lighter-skinned, but she had the same hair and the same dark, mischievous eyes, although Damian’s tended to turn into adorable crescent moons against his full cheeks when he laughed or smiled these days. She supposed she was so used to seeing him with softer edges, it was difficult to see his similarities to the much thinner Lily at first.

Once out of the shower, she toweled off her hair, combed it through with a bit of baby lotion (which made a great leave-in conditioner if you were on a budget), put on her PJs, and curled up in bed, Damian not far behind her. She was a little too tired and still too tipsy to please him sexually, but he seemed to be in more of a cuddly mood anyway, holding her tight around the waist from behind, almost like a comfort object. “How was your talk with your sister?” she asked.

“She drunk as fuck. I tried to show her to a spare room, but she passed the fuck out on the couch.”

“Poor dear. I hope she feels alright in the morning.”

She absolutely melted into Damian’s embrace. It was cold tonight, mercilessly so, but the weight of his heavy thigh pulling her against the mattress and the soft push of his precious pillow of a belly against her back kept her feeling warm and secure. His arms were as thick and muscular as ever, but even there, she could feel a modest layer of fat beginning to settle on top of the muscle. He might have broken his latest plateau if not for the early end of the lockdown. Soon, Christyn would have to give him back to ‘Sergeant’ Mathison, and he would no doubt return to her a little firmer and a little leaner…

Or she could just feed him extra to make up for the spent energy.

She drifted off to sleep thinking of all the delicious food she would prepare to keep her darling boy happy and growing.

***

Damian had been shaken by the appearance of his sister on his doorstep, but hoped she would be gone by the time he went downstairs for breakfast. Christyn had mentioned that Lily had to catch a cab to work that day, before leaving herself to help Auralee with something at the bowling alley.

Christyn had made scratch biscuits for breakfast, along with a whole skillet of scrambled eggs with spinach, bell peppers, and onions that were cooked until they were soft and almost see-through in some places and crispy in others. He was starting to come around to onions cooked this way, even if the raw ones still made him want to gag.

She had left the eggs warming on the stove, so all he had to do was reheat a couple of biscuits in the oven. He only took two: they were huge, and he already knew how dense and filling they were. He cut them in half and loaded a hearty portion of scrambled eggs on top. After finishing his plate with a drizzle of Christyn’s Vietnamese hot sauce, he poured himself a tall glass of sweet tea from the pitcher Christyn kept in the fridge for him, spiked it with creamer, and sat down happily at the kitchen table.

He was contentedly munching away when he heard someone coming down the hall towards the kitchen. At first he thought it was Alex, but then he remembered Alex had offered to go into town this morning and arrange a show at a Midtown live music venue. Anyway, the footfalls were too light to be his. Damian realized all too late that Lily was still here.

“What do you want, Lily?” he grumbled as she stepped into the room.

“Is that any way to talk to a sister who bailed you out of jail?” she asked. “I had hoped you would at least have taken the time to thank me. But no, all I get is radio silence, and then you disappear. Move counties, even.”

“How did you even know where to find me?”

“Jesse mentioned his broad, Christyn Brandywine, had taken up with you. As luck would have it, she happened to work at my job.”

“How do you even know Jesse?” he asked. He wasn’t surprised those two awful people were friends.

She didn’t give him a direct answer. “It’s almost as if the universe doesn’t want us to be separated.”

“Tell that to the courts.”

His stress level had skyrocketed, and he returned to the stove to fix himself a second plate of breakfast in the hope of smothering the feeling of dread.

“Might want to slow down there, little brother,” said Lily. “Jesse said you were letting yourself go, but this is ridiculous.”

It almost gave him a spot of relief to hear her say it. Maybe she didn’t want what he thought she did, or at least, not anymore, now that she’d seen him. Maybe she’d be content to just take the money he owed her for bonding him out of jail and leave him in peace. He could give her the cash in hand right now if that was all it would take to get rid of her.

“Not to worry, though, I’m sure I can help you get in some hard cardio.”

Or not.

His heart had started to beat painfully fast with anxiety. If he didn’t know any better, he would think he was going into cardiac arrest. He tried to be brave. “You think I wouldn’t just push you off?”

She pouted. “You would do that to me? The only person who ever took care of you?”

That was how she used to justify it. We only have each other. That was her excuse to make him do things no brother should have to, things no kid in elementary school should even know about.

He should have told Christyn. He just didn’t want her to think he was weak.

“You know, Lily, it’s nice to see you. Glad your ass off the crack pipe now. But what you did to me was fucked up, I don’t wanna talk to you, and Imma need you to go head and catch your taxi.”

“Come on, Damian. I just want a chance to properly say goodbye before we move on with our lives. One last hurrah. I’ll make it nice for you. What do you say?”

He wanted to ignore her and finish eating, but he felt like he was going to throw up.

Air. He needed air.

He pushed past her, making for the front door, but halfway there his head spun and it became a struggle to keep his eyes open. He couldn’t breathe fast enough. He collapsed onto the living room sofa, barely able to sit up straight. “What the fuck?” he groaned.

Lily walked over to him and squeezed his shoulder, her hand dangerously close to his neck. He guessed she planned to choke him, the way she used to do to get him up. Somehow it always worked, even though he hated it. “You always did like cream in your tea. Is it any wonder that you…? Well, you know.”

“You drugged me?”

“I helped you relax.”

“You’ll go to prison. For real this time.” Not that he could call the cops, but he could bluff.

She tilted his chin up so he had to look at her. “Oh, nonsense.”

***

Christyn had insisted on going to the bowling alley in one car, to do the environment a favor. She had also insisted that it be her car, since she got better gas mileage. She had also insisted on driving, since Auralee’s breakfast drink of choice had been no fewer than four screwdrivers, with the orange juice mainly splashed on top for color.

“Would you hurry it up before someone loots the place?” Auralee complained, along with similar eggings on, the whole way there, but Christyn was determined to get them there unscathed without breaking any traffic laws.

No one had looted the bowling alley, to Auralee’s genuine surprise. She took inventory of the liquor and the food, and had Christyn calculate how long the liquor would last based on past sales records, plus how much projected profit they could expect losing on the food side: even though the lockdown was ending, the meat ban would probably remain in effect for quite some time. Auralee would have to pull all the meat and sell it to her clients on the sly, but the bowling alley wouldn’t see any of that money.

“You ever miss this place?” asked Auralee as she and Christyn finalized their work in the managers’ office, Auralee plugging numbers into the computer while Christyn did her calculations longhand at a spare table.

“You mean do I miss your mother’s microaggressions? Her telling all the servers not to help me because I ‘could use the exercise’? Yeah, no.” She returned to her work. “You know, maybe you should be conservative and order the liquor early. It’s been a while since anyone in the county has gotten to sit down for a drink at a bar. I imagine they’ll be flocking here, even if they don’t know a thing about bowling.”

“Good point. I’ll see if I can get my mother to approve,” said Auralee. “You know how stingy she can be with me.”

“Ah, family. Sometimes listening to you gripe about yours makes me glad I haven’t got one. Oh, speaking of family, isn’t it wild that Damian’s sister is my coworker from the agency?”

Auralee whipped around in her seat to stare Christyn dead in the eye. “Please tell me that isn’t who was passed out on the couch…? Oh my god...you really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“I’m not surprised he never brought it up with me, I’m just his employer. But you…? Then again, it makes sense. He’s got his pride, he wouldn't want you feeling sorry for him.”

“Auralee, tell me what’s going on!”

Auralee got up and strode to the back of the office, where she produced a key from her handbag and opened a filing cabinet against the back wall. “Aura, what is that?” asked Christyn as Auralee pulled a thick manila folder out of the top drawer.

“Damian’s court record.”

“Why do you have Damian’s court record?”

“I obtain one for everyone I meet, and keep one on file for all my current employees,” said Auralee, as if that was normal. “Most of these are just unpaid tickets, but take a look at this one.” She handed Christyn a document from near the front of the stack.

_DAMIAN DYON MENDEZ V LILITH LYLA MENDEZ_

_IN THE DISTRICT COURT OF HARRIS COUNTY, TEXAS_

_280th JUDICIAL COURT_

_PROTECTIVE ORDER_

_On 05/31/2016, the Court heard the Application of DAMIAN DYON MENDEZ for a Protective Order. Applicant appeared in person represented by the Harris County District Attorney’s Office and announced ready._

_Respondent, LILITH LYLA MENDEZ, having been duly and properly cited, and having been duly and properly served with the application and notice of the hearing, appeared in person and announced ready._

_The Court, having considered the pleadings and heard the evidence and argument of counsel, finds that all necessary prerequisites of the law have been satisfied and that this Court has jurisdiction over the parties and subject matter of this cause._

_The Court finds that the Applicant and Respondent are members of the same family. The Court finds that family violence has occurred and that family violence is likely to occur again in the future, and that the Respondent, LILITH LYLA MENDEZ, has committed family violence. The Court finds that the following protective orders are for the safety and welfare and are in the best interest of the Applicant and are necessary for the prevention of family violence. The Court finds that the Respondent has committed an act constituting a FELONY offense involving sexual assault and incest against the Applicant._

Christyn couldn’t read any further. She was going to be sick. “Why isn’t she in prison?”

“He never went to testify at her criminal trial and they threw it out.”

“We have to go back!”

“Way ahead of you. I’ll drive.”

“The hell you won’t!”

“The hell I will! I drive faster.”

When they got back to the house, Christyn queasy and not just because of Auralee’s driving, they threw open the door to find Damian pinned against the living room sofa by Lily. “You get your claws off him, you bitch!” Christyn shrieked. Auralee, however, seemed to have a different idea. She had pulled out her phone and started taking pictures. “What are you doing?”

“Evidence. Wouldn’t the Court like to know that she violated a lifetime protective order?”

Christyn yanked Lily off of Damian and threw her at least three feet back. “Baby, are you okay?” He slumped forward against her body, weak and clearly drugged. She held him against her while Auralee dealt with Lily.

“Who are you? And how do you know about the protective order?”

“I’m the eleventh wealthiest woman in Houston, and I happen to have connections to the police, so I suggest you get lost, before there’s nowhere left for you to run to. Incest is a federal crime, honey. Did you hear me? Federal. That means in all 50 states.”

Once Lily had backed out the door, Christyn took the time to examine Damian. He was out of it, but appeared mostly unharmed. At least he was still dressed. “What did she do to you?”

He didn’t say anything. She had a feeling he couldn’t speak just yet.

She sat down on the couch and just stayed with him, stroking his hair and rubbing his back and shoulders gently through his shirt. She didn’t want to do anything that would startle him too badly. “Are you hungry, darling?” she asked after some time.

He shook his head no.

“Are you tired?”

“Dunno,” he managed with some difficulty.

Once he regained a bit of motor function, he lay down against the armrest and pulled her tight against him. Facing him, she ran a hand up and down his soft side and allowed him to hold her as close as he needed to. “Damian, listen to me,” she said. “I know what happened, and I want you to know that you are so strong, okay? So brave. It wasn’t your fault, and I understand why you never told me. But to come out of that and still be the wonderful person that you are? You’re so special for that. And I am so, so lucky to call you mine.”

An eternity seemed to pass before he finally found it in him to stand. “I need some fresh air,” he said, gently guiding her off to the side.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

But he wasn’t back in a minute.

The next morning, Christyn was awakened on the couch by the sound of Auralee cursing and pacing and slamming a shot glass onto the coffee table. “God fucking damn it! It’s time to reopen and I can’t find my fucking barback anywhere!”

“Hang on, lemme call him,” said Christyn, before realizing she had left her phone in her car the previous night. She got up and wandered to the kitchen, where she usually kept her car keys…

Fuck. They were missing.

Auralee had followed her and gave her a troubled look. About that time, Alex wandered into the kitchen. “Hey, ladies, you know those Xans I had left over? I was gonna unload them at our next show, but I can’t find them, and I didn’t take them, so I was wondering if--?”

Christyn shuddered. “If that’s what she gave him--”

“And your keys!”

“But that means--”

A firm knock sounded at the door.

Christyn answered it. Of course it was a cop.

“Ms. Brandywine?”

“How may I help you, Officer?”

“I’m Detective Scott with the Richmond PD, would you mind coming down to the station to answer a couple questions?”

She accompanied the detective in his patrol car to the station, where he led her into a small room with a desk and a mirror. Another officer followed them inside and closed the door behind them. Christyn struggled not to let her nerves betray her as she sat down at the desk.

“Are you aware that your car has been stolen, Ms. Brandywine?”

For now, she decided to feign oblivion. “I...my car got stolen?”

The detective made a note on his clipboard. “We picked up an intoxicated driver in a green 2007 Fiat. We ran the plates, and your name came up. Car thief said he found it parked outside of a bar with the keys in the ignition. Mind telling us which bar?”

Christyn saw at once what was going on. Damian had told the police that he didn’t know her. He was trying to spare her from being charged for harboring him as a fugitive.

And they were trying to catch him in a lie.

“Oh, gee, Officer...I don’t remember. To tell you the truth, I got extremely drunk last night. I caught a cab home, as one should. I guess I didn’t realize the keys were still in there, and the door hasn’t locked for years.”

“Well, you recover well, I tell you that. Tell me, Ms. Brandywine, does the name Damian Mendez mean anything to you?”

Her face was a stone mask. “That’s a common name. And I meet a lot of people; I work in a hotel bar. Maybe if I were to see a lineup, though, I could help you.” If she could just see him...if she could make sure he was okay...

“Unfortunately, we had to transport the suspect to jail in Harris County, where he’s wanted for jail break.”

“So he’s not injured? Not enough to go to the hospital?” she blurted, not thinking.

The detective raised an eyebrow. “You’re worried about this individual?”

She fought to regain her composure. “I’m worried about my vehicle.”

“Oh, the car is wrecked. But you’re sure you don’t recognize the name Damian Mendez off the top of your head?” His eyes bored into her. “Last chance to change your answer.”

“No, Detective Scott, not off the top of my head, and I have an excellent memory for names,” she said, suddenly defiant.

“Then what was this doing in his pocket?” The detective threw a folded up piece of paper onto the table. She opened it up. It was the letter of recommendation she had written Damian after the Capital Cafe went under.

She could have wept.

After all this time, he still kept it on him so he’d always have a piece of her.

The other policeman cuffed her hands behind her back. “Christyn Brandywine, you are under arrest for obstruction of justice.”


	28. TWENTY-SEVEN

**TWENTY-SEVEN**

Auralee and Alex both made separate bids to bail Christyn out of jail, but in the end, Esteban beat them to the punch. Even if he’d only done it so he could make her come to work on Christmas, she appreciated being back on the outside.

For the first few months, her trial was deferred. She had expected that much after watching Damian deal with his own legal troubles after his second DWI charge. In fact, if she recalled correctly, his case had still been open when he ran off with her and became a fugitive.

She was in frequent communication with Zeke, often to ask him for legal advice, but they talked about life, too. He had moved in with Beans, and none of the other girls were raising an objection towards his suddenly monogamous ways. In fact, they had all predicted that Sabine would win out in the end. Those two were good for each other. He was the calm to her storm.

During the last months of winter and the beginning of spring, he finished his final exams and started at a small law firm, quickly rising up the ranks. Christyn wished she could say she was having as swell of a time in her own career.

The Rodeo came around, and once again, Abigail asked her to bartend. So she went, but this time she really felt what a drag the whole thing was. Without Damian to come home to, she was a raw nerve under the pressure of serving in the chaotic stadium. Everything annoyed her: the rude customers; Staff Sergeant Tracy Whatsername’s obnoxious soprano as she sang the Star Spangled Banner every damn day the same as last year; the Rodeo committee, who mostly spent the whole time getting drunk and gossiping, but even when they tried to help, they were incompetent behind the bar and only managed to slow Christyn down.

After the Rodeo, Christyn fired her idiot public defender and hired Zeke to represent her. She had sent him the details of her case and had meant to set up a time that week for them to meet and discuss everything, but a situation had come up with her friends at work: Topher’s lease was up, and Sten wanted to move in with him instead of continuing to live with her parents. Topher’s studio was too tight of a squeeze, but they were having trouble finding a large enough apartment in town that they could afford on bartenders’ salaries. Christyn decided to offer them room at her place for a modest rent to help cover the grocery bill--she had more than enough space, and it was too quiet in the house with Damian absent.

It was after the movers dropped off their furniture that Auralee returned from work one day with some bad news: “He’s been sentenced.”

“What? Already?” Christyn almost dropped the ladle she had been using to stir soup. (Sten and Topher trusted her to handle the cooking, as neither of them were of any use in the kitchen. Though they had both been initially put off by what they knew of her feedist activities, they had warmed up by now, happily eating what she prepared as long as she didn’t ‘try anything’ on them.)

Auralee handed over her phone, her browser open to the Harris County District Clerk’s criminal record database. “Five years in state jail. Also, did you know that the court updates your weight on all of your records each time you’re arrested? Although I think they round to the nearest ten pounds. The one for assault of an officer and the handgun charge both say 200 now.”

“Of course that’s what you looked at,” said Christyn through a lump in her throat.

“Oh god, another one?” said Topher in disbelief from his seat at the kitchen table.

Sten, however, was much more sympathetic. She sprung out of her seat and went to hug Christyn from the side. “Damian, that’s your boo, isn’t it?” she asked, reading over Christyn’s shoulder.

Christyn nodded, forcing back tears.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay. He probably won’t have to serve his whole sentence. And he’s a big guy, he’ll be able to hold his own. He probably won’t get fucked in the butt.”

“Thanks, Sten. I didn’t know there was a soothing way to say the words ‘fucked in the butt’ before now.” Christyn placed her free hand on top of the one Sten had on her shoulder.

“And,” added Auralee, “if they starve him back down to bones in there, you’ll get to fatten him back up all over again once he’s out, won’t that be fun?”

“Auralee, you’re making it worse!” snapped Sten.

“Don’t bother with her, she’s probably drunk.” Christyn handed Sten the ladle. “You can handle stirring the soup, right? I need to call my lawyer real fast.”

She needed to win this case.

Otherwise, Damian had taken a charge of grand theft auto for nothing.

***

Auralee paced the kitchen on the phone one morning as Christyn made breakfast: chilaquiles with corn, beans, pico, and salsa for herself, Sten, and Topher, and plain eggs and tortilla chips for Alex, who’d turned his nose up at everything else on the menu. Auralee was spoiling him with junk food when they were together: his diet resembled that of an unsupervised child at a birthday party, consisting mostly of pizza, hot dogs, desserts, and cheeseburgers, plain and dry. Every attempt by Christyn to expand his palate was met with failure, so in the end, she usually caved and made accomodations for him.

“Yes, I know it’s a tragedy, but I can’t afford to take any time off, even in my grief, and besides, she would have wanted me to make it my first priority to make sure her business is going to be looked after,” Auralee said into the receiver between swigs of vodka straight from the bottle.

“What’s happening over there?” asked Sten. “I’ve never seen anyone drink this early. What’s the big tragedy?”

“Oh, she’s always like this,” said Christyn.

“I mean, her mom just died, but I think she’s more happy about that than anything else. According to her, her mom’s a bitch. Was a bitch,” Alex corrected himself.

On the other side of the room, Auralee said into the phone, “I’ll be in the city by noon today to discuss the division of her assets with my father and my surviving brother. You should be present at the meeting. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to let you go so I can get ready for my trip.” She approached Alex at the table and smoothed her fingers through his hair. “Baby, that was my mother’s lawyer. I have to go back to Houston for a week to settle her estate and collect my share of the inheritance. You’ll be fine here, right?”

“Why don’t I go with you?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about me, you need to be practicing guitar for our upcoming shows,” said Auralee. “I do have some plans for you, though, Chrissy.”

“I’d love to go with you!” said Christyn at once. A change of scenery might be exactly what she needed these days, and it would also place her closer to Damian--not that she could visit him, with her obstruction case still open. But it might bring her comfort, being at least back in the city with him.

“That's not what I was gonna ask you to do,” said Auralee. “Want to come out and have a smoke with me?”

As the two women went out back, Auralee closed the door behind them, lit up a cigarette, and revealed her plan. “I know how I usually handle my feedees: stuff them senseless in the beginning, overwhelm them with praise and sex, and then ignore them for a while, so that when I come back to them, they’re good and hungry and begging me for food, begging me to tell them how fat they are and how fat I’ll promise to make them...but I want to try an experiment. Now that you’ve been pulled to the feeder side, I’m curious to see just what you can do. You certainly managed to put some weight on Damian...but you had it easy with him. That boy’s libido is more hard-wired to his satiety than even some of the most experienced feedees I’ve known. I want you to look after Alex for the week and keep him on track. It’ll give you a chance to prove to me you’re a real feeder...if you’re up for it.”

Christyn choked on her smoke. “What are you, the TABC? Are you planning on revoking my ‘feeder card’ if I won’t take your test to renew my cert?”

“Come on, you need your practice. Damian might be out of jail faster than you think, the jails here in Texas are so overcrowded. Don’t you want to be prepared to please him when he comes back?”

“I’d rather wait for him.”

“You know, you should take it as a high honor that I want you to feed my man, after the shit you pulled with Roger. I mean this assignment speaks not only on my belief in your ability, but my trust in you not to steal another one of my men!”

“I’m just not sure I’m comfortable fattening up another woman’s feedee.”

“I’ll give you a thousand bucks,” said Auralee.

That was more than Christyn would make in two weeks at the hotel, and she did have to pay her lawyer.

“I’ll get Sten and Topher to cover my shifts.”

***

Christyn and Alex had the house to themselves the next morning, as Sten was out for a run and Topher had already left to go to work in Christyn’s stead. As she started breakfast, Alex wandered into the kitchen from the living room where he’d been watching TV. “Whatever that is, it smells amazing,” he said as he walked over to the stove to intently watch her cook.

“Quesadillas,” she said. “Mushrooms, onions, spinach, and bell pepper for me, and chicken for you. I hope you’re hungry!” She piled his plate with an intimidating serving, but he didn’t look surprised. She’d explained to him the previous afternoon that Auralee had placed her on feeder duty, and he happily consented to the arrangement, not wanting to fall behind on gaining and disappoint Auralee upon her return. (And to think, he used to be so vain.)

“Starving,” he said, “but Aura says to delay breakfast by at least two hours once I wake up, to tamp down my metabolism. It’s only been an hour.”

“Yes, I know, Aura left me her notes, and I think they’re ridiculous. If you’re hungry, then eat,” Christyn commanded.

“But it won’t be as efficient--”

“Look, Auralee left me in charge, and if I was able to fatten up Damian without any of these rules, I bet I can do the same with you, even if you’re a good deal more difficult.”

“I am not difficult!” he protested. “I know I was a little resistant to all this at first, but not anymore!”

“You still hit your limit pretty fast, and you’re picky as hell. Damian would never have a problem eating whatever I put in front of him.” Then again, Christyn had always been mindful of Damian’s preferences, but he didn’t have many aversions. He said he didn’t like onions, but over time she realized that it was only raw onions he disliked. He also had a distaste for cheese that he seemed only vaguely aware of himself, but other than that, he was easy to cook for. “You only want to eat garbage, and you can’t even eat that much garbage.”

As if to prove her wrong, he began to tear into breakfast, at first as fast as he could chew and swallow, but he started to slow down about three quarters of the way through his plate. “Here, don’t force yourself, you’ll just get sick,” said Christyn. “I’ll put the rest in the fridge and you can reheat it as a snack later. For now, how about a nice high-calorie beverage to fill up all the empty spaces, yeah?”

This was new territory for her. She’d never been this insistent about getting extra calories down Damian’s throat, her first priority being his comfort and enjoyment, but with Alex, she had money on the line, and she didn’t want to risk Auralee docking her pay. She fixed him Damian’s old favorite elixir of sweet iced tea with cream, but as she handed him the glass, he eyed it suspiciously. “Is that tea?” he asked. “Auralee said no caffeine."

“It’s decaf,” Christyn lied. Auralee might have had faith in her strict set of rules, but Christyn was confident that she knew what she was doing, and if she had to tell a little fib to get Alex to comply with her, then that was what she’d do.

The tea, he told her, was delicious.

After letting him rest off breakfast on the couch, guitar in hand to rehearse his and Auralee’s set, Christyn took him to lunch at the six-dollar chicken buffet. He did a lot better there than he had at breakfast, loading up two full plates of both mains and desserts while Christyn contented herself with a buttermilk biscuit and a scoop each of creamed corn and green bean casserole, which the waiter had assured her was vegetarian safe.

“What are you eating?” he asked between alternating bites of fried chicken and cheesecake. “Looks gross.”

“You shouldn’t criticize other people while they’re eating. It’s rude,” she said.

“Sorry. Those green things just look weird.”

“Yes, well, they’re also full of vitamins that make my hair shiny and my bones solid and keep me from getting sick. You should try them sometime.”

“No thanks.”

As he cleaned his second plate with ease, it occurred to her that variety might be the key to unlocking his capacity. He ate more at the buffet when he could have his pick at any time of anything on the serving line than he did when presented with a lot of just one thing. She highly suspected that oftentimes when he ‘hit his limit,’ he wasn’t really full, just bored.

On the drive back, a call came in from Zeke. “Hang on, this is my lawyer,” she said, turning down the radio as she answered. “Zeke, my man, what’s up?”

“Chrissy, I am so sorry. This is so unprofessional of me. I know I was supposed to come over at 3 today to discuss your case, but I had to take my sister to the doctor at the last minute. It doesn’t look like I’m finna be out of here until anytime before 6:30.”

“That’s no problem!” said Christyn. “You can come over for dinner instead. Bring Beans, tell her I’ll make that brussels sprout dip that she likes. And bring your sister, too! We all have too much catching up to do!”

Christyn hadn’t seen Hope in person since before Hurricane Harvey. Shortly after a manager from Common Table poached her from the bowling alley promising her $300 a shift on the floor at the restaurant, Hope graduated high school, and as she went looking for a job, Zeke suggested she apply to work with Christyn, not wanting her anywhere near the bowling alley for a myriad of reasons. Christyn gave her a glowing recommendation as a favor to Zeke, and the two became fast friends, and after the hurricane destroyed the restaurant, forcing the entire staff to evacuate into a nearby wholesale store mid-shift, they continued to correspond online and via text, but they had yet to catch up in person.

Zeke’s delay left Christyn plenty of time to make notes for Auralee on the day’s progress so far, not to mention prepare a generous spread for dinner: along with her dip, she made two meatloaves, one traditional and one vegetarian, mashed potatoes, and an assortment of different mini cupcakes, with enough of everything prepared so that Topher and Sten could join them if they happened to get out of work early. She dressed up and did her makeup just in time to answer the doorbell.

Zeke stood on the porch with a bottle of red wine in hand and the same awed expression he had every time he came over. “Damn, I keep forgetting, you rich-rich now,” he said.

“Says the guy with the real job. How’s that going, by the way?”

Zeke laughed, but gave no other response.

Hope looked nice. She had changed her hair, ditching the wig for a more natural, tightly-curled do, and while she’d always been a curvy girl, she’d put on some weight since Christyn saw her last, which Christyn thought suited her, although she was too polite to comment in case it wouldn’t be well-received--Hope’s loose-fitting dress looked designed to camouflage a rounder middle.

After making introductions in the foyer, Christyn sat everyone down in the dining room, and dinner commenced. She laid everything out on the table at once, having learned of Alex’s proclivity for mixing courses at lunch, and offered a round of wine, which Zeke declined, as he was ‘on the clock,’ but Hope accepted. “Sure, I still ain’t had my one glass of red this week.”

That’s when it clicked for Christyn. “When are you due?”

“September.”

“Are we gonna get to meet Dad, or…?”

Like her brother, Hope went silent when a subject came up that she didn’t want to talk about, giving a cryptic sardonic laugh.

“Alright, Christmas Day, we need to talk about your legal case,” said Zeke, getting straight down to business without touching the food while the others started loading their plates. “You remember how you signed the letter they found on Damian?”

“Yeah, with my name.”

“No, you signed Chris.”

“Funny thing, I dated a guy named Damian,” Hope interjected.

“When was this? I thought I knew all your boyfriends,” said Zeke.

“We only dated for two months. You were at college, and I didn’t want to bother you. Besides, we never even did anything. He was a freshman and I was a senior, and even though he came onto me pretty hard, I didn’t want to break any laws...it didn’t feel like the relationship was a big deal.”

Christyn couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of the connection--the tattoo on Damian’s arm, Hope in Swahili. “How’d you guys break up?” she asked, wanting to know if they were talking about the same guy.

“It was more of a drift apart. See, I had found out he was, well, getting abused by his older sister, so I did the sensible thing and called CPS. They intervened, but he didn’t want to get stuck in the system until he was eighteen, so he went off on his own and moved in with some drug dealer friend of his in the southwest, down by Missouri City. I probably should have broke it off then. I was getting the sense that he was bad news. A week later, he hit a lick on a convenience store trying to cover his part of the rent, got caught, and went to juvie. I kind of ghosted him after that, but again, we were only together for two--oh my God, you know him, don’t you?”

Christyn’s wide-eyed, gape-mouthed expression must have given her away.

“Where’s he at now?” asked Hope.

“Kegans state jail.”

“Damn, guess I dodged a bullet.”

“Guess you did,” Christyn said sadly. There were times when she could live her life and go about her business without the ache of his absence dampening her spirits, but that whole conversation made her feel it like a bullet in her heart.

Zeke cleared his throat. “If you two ladies want to get back on track...remember, Chrissy, you are getting billed.” He went on to tell her that, in doing some digging, he had discovered there were no fewer than fourteen people named Chris Brandywine between here and Spring, and five of them worked in the restaurant industry. In order to prove that Christyn had written the letter and not one of the others, the Richmond PD would have to track down all of them, or else take it to the IRS to try and prove that Christyn had worked with Damian at the Capital. “And there's no way they’ll go that high over your cute little obstruction charge,” he assured her.

As they were wrapping up the legal discussion and Zeke was finally starting to help himself to dinner, the front door flew open and Sten stomped in, furious. “I’ve had it with that stupid hotel!” she fumed. “I served an entire 40-top their drinks today because they kept coming up to the bar while the Princess was in the bathroom on her phone, rung everything in under my own number, made everything on the well, and Sylvia had the audacity to make me transfer the tab over to Ruby so she could collect the tip, because according to her, it was ‘her table.’--oh, sorry, I didn’t know we were having a dinner party. Who are you people?”

“Breathe, Sten,” said Christyn. “Sit down, there’s plenty of food. This is my friend and criminal defense attorney, Zeke, his sister Hope, and his girlfriend Sabine. Everyone, this is Sten, she’s my coworker and roommate. Where’s Topher?”

“Still at the hotel, trying to get Esteban to fight Sylvia on it for me, but we all know Esteban is powerless at that place.” She pulled up a chair and said, “It’s nice to meet y’all,” sounding calmer, but still looking exasperated.

“So are you gonna quit?” asked Christyn. 

“I feel like I should have quit a long time ago. I stay there out of spite, but this time, I want revenge. You can bet the EEOC and the Texas Labor Bureau are gonna hear about this.”

“Don’t want to burst your bubble,” said Zeke, “but the state of Texas don’t give two shits about the working man. You want to make this place suffer, you’re gonna have to make it the rich man’s problem. Instead of the EEOC, go to the health department with any code violation you can find. Make all the rich folk terrified to eat there. And if you can’t find one...plant one.”

“Damn,” said Christyn, “that’s not a bad plan. Put it on my bill for that extra bit of legal advice...or should I say, illegal advice!”

While the others were busy talking labor law and corporate vendetta, Alex and Sabine had been getting to know each other. Sabine had a lot of questions about what Auralee was like as a girlfriend, and how her endeavor to fatten him up was going. Hope looked horrified at the very idea, and at one point Christyn and Sabine exchanged a smirking glance: Hope had no idea what a bullet she’d dodged.

“You have to try the dip,” said Sabine as Alex finished off his second plate of everything but the dip. “It’s so good! I don’t even care that it’s probably the most fattening thing on the table, and that makes it even better for you, right?”

“You’re crazy if you think that green slop is going anywhere near my mouth,” said Alex, loud enough for Christyn to hear, and it hurt her feelings more than she thought it would. She was used to hearing her cooking praised, so to have it insulted, after he hadn’t even bothered to taste it, stung her ego right where she was expecting it to be stroked.

That night, after Zeke and company had gone home, she made him his gainer shake as Auralee mandated, spitefully blending in a heaping handful of raw spinach and a whole avocado and disguising the green coloration with as much chocolate sauce as she could squeeze out of the bottle. Later on, she heard the faucet running as she passed one of the bathrooms, but it wasn’t loud enough to cover his groans of, “Lord have mercy!”

She noticed the next morning that he absolutely devoured the spread she set out for breakfast, and came to the conclusion that she’d inadvertently done him and Auralee a favor. Her sneaky green shake had probably cleared out days’ worth of backup, and he was having a much easier time stuffing himself without his colon compressing his stomach from inside. She made a note to Auralee to keep him regular by sneaking him vegetables, since he refused to eat them voluntarily.

They spent the afternoon playing video games, Alex kicking Christyn’s ass the whole time, until it was time for lunch, and then after lunch, Christyn mopped the floor with Alex at chess, then checkers, then backgammon, all the while making sure he always had a snack onhand. She turned in early so she could wake up for court, and in the morning, decided to take Alex with her, so he could get some fresh air and take lunch at one of the restaurants near the courthouse.

Zeke met her there, and despite being close to the front of the alphabetical lineup of defendants, she waited hours only to have her case deferred another month. When she got out, she tracked down Alex and found him in the booth of a burger joint, surrounded by empty plates, his stomach visibly distended and poking out the bottom of his shirt. “I just ordered fourths and the server’s asking her manager if she can responsibly serve me any more food,” he boasted, even as he winced from the apparent pain in his abdomen.

“Sounds like bullshit,” said Christyn, who hadn’t forgotten that he had introduced himself to her when they first met as the self-proclaimed ‘master of bullshit.’ “Are you ready for the bill, or what?”

“What’s the hurry? I still have a burger coming, pending managerial approval, and I’m still so damn starving.”

“Now that’s bullshit if I’ve ever heard it. You look like you’re about to explode, dude.”

“I know, and I feel like it, too,” he groaned, “but the pills--”

“The what, now?”

“Every couple weeks Aura’s been having me take an appetite stimulant. She doesn’t want me dependant on the things to eat, but she does want me to get a good binge in every once in a while, and today was the day.”

“Aura’s insane!” blurted Christyn, and she knew it for a fact. There were normal appetite stimulants on the market meant for bodybuilders trying to bulk up or anorexics in recovery, but those wouldn’t compel you to eat much more than an extra side order past what you normally would--not four times more than a normal human intake in one sitting. Auralee, however, had access to stronger drugs that had never been approved by the FDA. She used them on her ‘special clients’ at the bowling alley, and it looked like that was what she was having Alex take, too, if not something even stronger. “Now, come on, I don’t want to have to take you to the hospital!” She threw a hundred dollar bill on the table to cover the tab and the tip and dragged him back to the car.

About halfway home, the effects of the appetite stimulant started to wear off and Alex started groaning and squirming in his seat. “God, I’m so fucking full,” he said.

“I bet,” said Christyn, turning the radio up to drown him out. It didn’t work.

“My stomach actually really hurts.”

“You should have thought of that before playing around with appetite enhancers without a spotter. You could’ve at least waited until I got out of court.”

“Chrissy?”

“What?”

“Will you rub my belly for me?”

“Absolutely the fuck not.”

“But I am in so much pain right now.”

“Remind me why that’s my problem?”

“Why are you being such a bitch?”

Finally, as if everything she’d been feeling in the past few months had boiled over all at once and the confines of her mind could no longer contain the steam, she exploded. “I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’m on trial for obstruction of justice for the small crime of trying to protect the one person who meant the whole fucking world to me, okay?” she screamed over the radio as she took a sharp left turn. “Or maybe it’s because my man’s in state jail and I can’t talk to him or put any money on his books, or else I risk exposing to the court that I lied to police and harbored a fugitive! And it probably doesn’t help my endorphin levels that I haven’t had any sex since December! Honestly, take your motherfucking pick!”

Alex went quiet for the next several stoplights in a row. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to forget everything you’re going through. Can we go back to being friends?”

“No, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve for me to go off like that.”

“Anyway, I know you wish there was something you could do to make Damian more comfortable in there, but even if you could leave him commissary, it’d be one of the worst things you could do. It would put a target on his head. He’ll make it on his own, he’s a survivor.”

“Thanks.” She sniffled and tried to blink back the hot wet burn in her eyes.

Unfortunately for Christyn, she wasn’t blessed with the ability to bury her problems with an excess of food like Damian could. She had to drown them. As soon as she and Alex arrived home, she slammed back several shots of vodka, and while a handful of drinks would have been the mere beginning of a fun night in her alcoholic past, it had been months since she had been earnestly drunk, and her tolerance was not what it once was. Sten and Topher would come home from work to find her on the living room floor, clinging to the gaps between the floorboards as if she would fall off the face of the Earth if she dared let go.

She awoke the next day around noon with a splitting headache. Someone must have moved her into her own bed. She was still hopelessly depressed after her afternoon in court reminded her of the harsh reality, and only came downstairs because she was still technically on the clock for Auralee.

Alex was making breakfast. “Good morning, sunshine!” he greeted her.

“Take my job, why don’t you,” she groaned. “I’m supposed to be looking after you.”

“You could use a break. I know you’ve been under a tremendous amount of stress.” He set the table with two settings. “Our roommates are already out and about, so it’s just us.” He pushed her into a kitchen chair and laid out a spread of bacon, eggs, toast, butter, and jam. “Now eat something, won’t you? You missed lunch and dinner yesterday.”

“What did you do for dinner last night?”

“We all got Chinese takeout. There’s some of that left over, too, if you want.”

“I’m not hungry,” she protested.

He sat down across from her and fixed her with a serious look in the eye. “Damian wouldn’t want you to neglect your health, not to mention your womanly figure.”

“I just don’t feel like eating any of this, okay?”

“What do you want, then?”

She thought about it a bit. “Something easy to get down.”

After eating his own fill, he led her to his Camaro and took her to a gas station, where she agreed to let him buy her a small yogurt parfait and a sports drink to replenish her lost fluids from a night of binge drinking. From there, he drove her to a sex shop nearby. “I get that you’re waiting for Damian, but in the meantime, I think it might help you to give yourself a little solo love, for the endorphins. Pick out whatever you want, my treat.”

After some perusing, she picked out a relatively inexpensive dildo from the clearance section. “I think this will do.”

“Are you crazy? That thing will kill you!” said Alex, surveying its length and girth with awed eyes.

“It’s no more than I know I can handle,” said Christyn, and Alex gaped, his face a mix of incredulity and a certain hurt of inadequacy. Nevertheless, he made good on his promise to foot the bill, and the cashier gave them a wink on their way out.

On their last day together, she decided they should take a little day trip. He was as excited as a newborn puppy as she piloted their long eastward journey, fulfilling his every request to stop for fast food along the way, but though he asked her no less than eight times where they were going, she didn’t spoil the surprise. At last, she pulled up at NASA, to his awe and delight.

After a fascinating tour of the facility, she led him to the food court, where L’vonte was cashiering at the fried chicken counter. “Damn, Christyn, when you asked where I was working the other day, I didn’t know you meant to pay a visit! It’s good to see you, though, and who’s this? Am I finally about to meet the feedee?”

“What?” Christyn blushed. “No, we’re just…” She would have thought that with the comfortable three feet of distance between them, it would be obvious that she and Alex weren’t in a relationship. Then again, she was out to L’vonte as a feeder, and with the weight Auralee had added to Alex’s once-thin frame (along with a final few pounds that Christyn was responsible for in exchange for Auralee’s substantial bribe), he fit the profile for a feedee, so she could see how L’vonte had come to the wrong conclusion.

Alex had decided to play dumb, and asked, “The what, now?” He reached over the counter to shake L’vonte’s hand. “You two obviously know each other. Name’s Alex Markham, I used to wait tables with Christyn at McCarthy’s.”

Satisfied that that was the extent of their association, L’vonte hooked up Christyn and her former workmate with a basket of fried chicken and two baskets of fries at no charge. “Thanks,” Christyn said to Alex as they picked out a table.

“For what?”

“For not saying anything stupid, like, ‘Yeah, I guess I’m her temporary feedee while my feeder’s off burying her mom and her feedee’s in jail,’ or something.”

“Come on, Chrissy, that’s not how I am!”

She said nothing, just stared at him across the table and let him recall all the times he’d been rude or brusque or careless with her this week alone. On the restaurant floor, he was the portrait of charisma, but outside of work, when he let that front fall, he could be downright insensitive. “Oh my God...I am like that.”

Christyn wasn’t hungry for much more than a few fries, so she pushed her order to Alex’s side of the table for him to finish off and returned to the counter to catch up with L’vonte. “So, how’s the agency treating you?”

“Pretty good! Last month they were sending me to work shifts at this golf course up in Richmond...great place, the tips are mad fat, and I just got a call from the manager over there saying they want to hire me full time! I just don’t know how I’m gonna find an apartment there on such short notice.”

“Hey, I’m actually staying in Richmond,” she said. “You could stay with me for a while. I’ll have to ask my four other roommates, but we have ten bedrooms, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“You’re too generous for your own good, Christyn. But keep ya boy posted, would you?”

***

When Auralee came home, she dragged Alex immediately to the bathroom to put him on the scale and see ‘what the damage was’ from his week with Christyn.

As Christyn was dressing for her first day back at work, she heard Auralee’s scream all the way from the other side of the house: “HOLY SHIT, 197?!”

Before she left, Auralee caught her at the door and handed her a personal check for $1500. “I decided a bonus was in order, since you managed to put nine whole pounds on the guy while I was gone. How the fuck did you manage it, Chrissy?”

“Easy, I took care of him,” she said, tucking the check into her bag. “I’ll email you a copy of my notes, so you’ll have them, but it really is that simple. I’m sure you’ve had your successes in the past by enforcing calorie quotas and pushing melted butter and deep-fried garbage on your boys, and don’t get me wrong, Alex had plenty of deep-fried garbage on my watch...but the most effective way, I think, to get your guy fat and happy is to just respect him as a person and make sure he’s comfortable enough to let go and indulge. Talk to the guy. Sit down and eat with him instead of just pacing around the kitchen on your phone drinking.” Saying all of this made her miss Damian all over again, and as she drove to the hotel, she wished the coming shift would be the toughest, busiest one yet, so that it would keep her mind occupied and the tears at bay.


	29. TWENTY-EIGHT

**TWENTY-EIGHT**

Damian didn’t take well to county jail.

If the first couple of times he’d been in here were misery, this was torture. Before, he’d been used to hunger, but Christyn had made good on her promise to make him forget what it felt like...until it hit him, twisting his insides like a knife.

Even if he did get a little softer at first without his job to keep him in shape, he dropped weight fast--fast enough for his kidneys to hurt. Auralee had warned him that might happen if he ever went back on his decision and cut weight too quickly. (Not that this was his decision. He barely remembered getting in Christyn’s car that night.)

Auralee had said the pain would go away eventually, as his body adjusted, and it did, after months, and not long after that, he was sentenced. (How the months flew by even if the days dragged. It felt like it was still January. Apparently, it was almost April.)

There was exactly one bright spot to being moved to state jail. As a guard escorted him down the hall to his new cell, he recognized a face in passing. “Weezy?”

It took the other man a minute, but at last, he got it. “Shit, D! How come whenever I see you it’s always in the lockup?”

“Maybe cause your ass always in here!” Damian laughed.

***

Damian and Weezy stayed across the hall from each other, and a few weeks in, Damian got a job working in the kitchen alongside his old friend. He thought he might have an easier time if he stuck close to one of the OGs.

At first, Weezy was oddly distant with him, but eventually, he figured out why. “So the last time I was on the outside, I, uh. I linked up with Hope,” he admitted one day while they were making sandwiches for the whole prison population.

“Guess it’s always a smaller city than you think,” said Damian. “Wait, don’t tell me that’s why you been avoiding me?”

“You ain’t mad?”

“Nah, bro.” Hope was probably closer to Weezy’s age than Damian’s. Weezy had always liked her, but stood politely out of the way when she was with Damian. At the time, he’d liked dating an older girl, who came from what he guessed was an educated family, even if he never met them. She’d seemed so smart. It made him feel protected. She had wanted to be a doctor. Back then, he didn’t know what he wanted. He should have known it was too good to last. “What happened?”

“I got busted for distribution, and then, nothing. She didn’t take my calls, so I stopped calling.”

“Yeah, she be doing it like that.”

***

L’vonte moved in in the beginning of April, and before the start of May, Hope called Christyn trying to find a place to crash before her new lease started. Christyn was glad for all the extra company she could get. It didn’t fill the void, but it filled a void.

Only, Hope wasn’t there for a week before Christyn caught L’vonte asking her out for coffee, and it wasn’t long before they were only taking up one room.

Christyn wanted to be happy for Hope, but it was alienating, being the only lonely person in the house. Not that she was looking around...she just wished she had a little solidarity.

Eventually, Hope moved into her new place, though she and L’vonte continued to correspond. “I miss her,” said L’vonte over smokes on the patio.

“Yeah?” said Christyn. “How do you think I feel? At least Hope is just a text message away. At least she comes back here for you on your day off. But she’s right, to get her own place. A house full of servers is no place to raise a child.”

***

It was Damian’s first day back working after a beating had sent him off the premises to the nearest hospital. Weezy was already hard at work over a soup pot, taste-testing and stirring in ingredients.

He seemed more like himself than Damian had ever seen him in jail. How they actually met was this: Damian had been trying to pick the lock and break into an apartment, and then Weezy opened the door. Rather than be mad, he’d invited Damian in for lunch. He was making chicken with rice and beans and scratch tortillas. Damian had asked why Weezy would waste the effort on him; Weezy said it was no trouble at all, and that as for the cooking, well, he was practicing for when he had a woman to please. Soon, the two were roommates, until Damian got sent to juvie.

“You good?” asked Weezy, his attention still on the soup pot as he poured something in.

“Is that lemon juice?”

“Cooking,” said Weezy, “be all about the delicate balance of five basic elements: salt, fat, sugar, acid, and heat.”

“What’s in the soup?”

“Roasted root vegetables. They actually got us some nice stuff today, ‘stead of the usual crap.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Yeah, garlic bread still needs done.”

They had cheap bread and cheap oil and cheap minced garlic. Damian threw it all together, slapped a few sheet pans in the oven, and looked over at Weezy, who was still meticulously working.

“Taste this, tell me what you think,” he said, handing Damian a small dressing-cup of soup. Damian took a sip.

“Not bad.” Still nothing like he knew Weezy was capable of, but it was hard, working with jail ingredients. “You were wasted as a drug dealer. Should’ve been a chef, you would have made mad bank.”

“I dunno about that. But hey, this is the first time I seen you eat something in here and not look like you was finna throw up. I get that, though, I mean, stop me if I’m wrong, but it looks like you got used to eating good on the outside.”

If only Weezy had seen him before county. “It was comfortable.”

As they were portioning the soup into bowls, Weezy asked, “You ever get lonely, bro?”

Damian glared. “What, I take one beating and now you think I’m a bitch?”

“I didn’t mean it that way, bro. I just thought, maybe...as friends...forget I said anything.”

Damian returned to work, trying not to get too hot-headed over the whole thing. It was going to be a long sentence working in the kitchen if he couldn’t let this go. Besides…

He did get lonely.

***

Months passed. Christyn met new people through the agency, and though she was more careful these days with who she trusted, not wanting a repeat of what happened with Lily, she was generous with houseroom once each of her friends passed Auralee’s background check. The ‘Server House,’ as they had taken to calling it, was now twenty-five strong, with many of them having to double or triple up in bedrooms, but she had dropped the rent to $50 a month apiece, so no one was complaining.

The agency was good to them, but many had other jobs that weren’t so kind. At all hours of the day, someone could be heard complaining about some workplace injustice.

It was over breakfast one morning that Christyn decided it was time for her disgruntled roommates to seek a little justice. “You guys, you guys!” she addressed the tightly packed kitchen. “We’re not powerless. We’re not living alone in tiny shoebox apartments anymore, subject to the demands of The Man. Look at us. The EEOC can ignore one call, but twenty-five calls at the same time?”

The room had gone silent, everyone standing around with their mouths half full, staring at her in awe.

“You tell me, guys: whose boss do we want to bring down first?”

***

They were in some rarely-visited stairwell, having given the guards the slip, with a good thirty minutes before they had to make mid-day roll call, Damian propped up against the stairs while Luis kneeled on the landing, sucking him off. (They were Damian and Luis when they were like this, it just felt more appropriate. Then, in front of the rest of the guys, it was back to ‘Whaddup D?’ and ‘Weezy, you piece of shit,’ like nothing had happened.)

Luis came up for air, his free hand, the one not still around Damian’s cock, drifting up to his chest. “Mmh. Them titties, though.”

Damian slapped his hand away. “Don’t make it weird.”

Luis’ hand settled on Damian’s side, which Damian guessed felt okay, if he could close his eyes and imagine it was Christyn touching him. But of course, Luis was having trouble shutting up.

“I can’t help it, okay? You’re soft like a girl, it’s nice.”

Damian fisted Luis’ hair and pushed him back onto his cock. “Don’t. Talk. Just. Suck.” He gripped his head with both hands, fucking his mouth faster and faster so he could get it over with. Once he’d spilled down Luis’ throat, Luis pulled back and started jacking himself off, and it didn’t take him long to shoot his load all over Damian’s stomach.

Damian cleaned himself off with a rag he’d snatched from the kitchen, pulled up his pants, and threw his shirt back on. He could feel Luis watching him. “What are you thinking?”

“Don’t just sit there, Weezy, get dressed.”

“But you’re thinking something.” Though he obediently pulled his pants up and wiped the drool off his face, he still prodded for an answer.

Damian, meanwhile, had been putting the pieces together in his mind: Weezy’s passion for cooking...whenever Damian saw him with a girl, it was always a thick one...then there was the voluptuous Hope Thomas...and now this. “Bro, I think you might be a feeder.”

“That’s not a gay thing, is it? Cause I’m not gay.”

“Course not. We’re just two guys who suck each other’s dicks cause we’re incarcerated.” Damian rolled his eyes.

Come to think of it, they were probably both a little bi, even if some people in the room didn’t want to admit it. And what was with that, anyway? Wasn’t it Weezy who came onto him first? “No, a feeder is just when you like a thick bitch, n’you want her to get thicker.”

“Damn, I didn’t know there was a word for it,” said Weezy, seeming to appreciate this new knowledge. “How you even learn this shit?”

“From a heavy metal singer. You get outta here, look up Auralee Kingston and the Waitstaff.” Of course, Auralee had given him his education in feedism before she was a local celebrity, but it sounded more impressive when he put it that way.

“Well, shit. Sounds like you had quite the life on the outside.” 

“Yeah...I did.”

***

That summer came like a lover kept on edge: long-delayed, but when it did finally come, it came hard, hot, and sticky.

Christyn was now rooming with Serenity and Recheena, two servers from the closest bar. She had switched out the broken bedframe for triple-decker bunks--the sight of the old one made her depressed, and besides, this saved space. Her two bunkmates were out of the house, and she was glad for it. She liked them well enough, but on this hellishly humid day, the extra body heat in the room would have been suffocating.

She was in her bra, panties, and socks, with her work shirt on, but not yet closed, dreading having to put on the pants. Her hair was still wet, but blow drying it would only make the heat worse. She planned to let it air dry while she drove to the hotel with the windows open and put it up once she got there. (She had bought a secondhand ‘13 Smart Fourtwo for a couple grand in cash, but the AC didn’t work. L’vonte, who was good with cars and had some free time on his hands, had offered to fix up Carolaine, so Christyn had let him do it in case any of the residents ever needed to borrow a car, and even waived his rent for as long as he stayed in exchange for the favor, but the AC didn’t work in that car either.)

She was checking her phone, scrolling past a snapshot of Auralee’s hand pushing Alex’s face into an entire cake (god, why did she still subscribe to Auralee’s blog?) when Auralee strode right in, empty glass in hand. “Chrissy, have we got anymore…?”

Auralee’s question got lost in the back of her throat as she stared, wide-eyed, at Christyn. It was the same look Christyn had given Damian a few times in what now felt to be the distant past, but as she had never been on the receiving end of it, she didn’t recognize it.

She stared at Auralee.

And Auralee stared back.

And Christyn stared at Auralee.

And Auralee stared at Christyn.

Finally, Christyn said, “What does the bottle of thousand island say to the refrigerator?”

“I don’t know, Chrissy, what does the thousand island say?”

“Shut the door, I’m dressing.” With that, she rose from her seat, shoved Auralee out of the room, and slammed the door.

“You’re more like a sad olive oil vinaigrette these days!” said Auralee, forcing her way back through the door. She took Christyn by the wrist, dragged her back to her own room...and grabbed her by the shoulders to make her stand on the bathroom scale.

“What is that supposed to...Auralee! You can’t just accost a woman in her underwear and force her to stand on your scale!”

“You can, if you can move her.” Auralee peered at the number and smacked Christyn upside the head. “One-eleven point seven! What have you done to yourself?!”

“Is that bad?”

“Well, seeing as you were probably 150 last year, it isn’t good. And when you passed out the last time we played at the hotel--”

“You were covering Fields of Athenry, it’s all about a guy who gets sent to prison. I collapsed in grief.”

“You collapsed from malnutrition! Christyn, look at yourself!”

Christyn dared a glance into Auralee’s bathroom mirror. She was much thinner for sure, the outline of her ribs barely visible for the first time in her life. She hadn’t even noticed the weight dropping off. She felt disconnected, disembodied, even...besides, she was trying to stay absorbed in her work. If she had a day off, she was usually on the phone all day with the labor bureau or the EEOC on behalf of one of her tenants. As long as she kept busy, she couldn’t be drinking, but the result was that she wasn’t eating either. She never had an appetite when she was sad or stressed.

“There’s a rumor going around the house,” said Auralee, “that you have cancer.”

“Did you start it? Because drunk you seems like the kind of person who’d do that.” 

“Chrissy, could you stop being a smartass for once in your life? This is serious. You’re probably doing worse than Damian right now. At least they’re feeding him in there. Just...please at least eat something before you go to work so you don’t collapse at the wheel.”

“Bold words for someone who drives drunk. Alright, what do I get for it?”

Auralee held up Christyn’s car keys. “You get these back.”

Dammit! She needed to start being more careful where she put those.

She returned to her room to finish dressing, Auralee close at her heels, and walked to the kitchen, where she took a spoon from the dishwasher, opened up the fridge, and served herself a spoonful of honey mustard by itself. She grimaced choking it down, but she would’ve done so with anything, nothing appealed to her these days. “Happy?”

Auralee’s eye twitched as she reluctantly surrendered the keys.


	30. TWENTY-NINE

**TWENTY-NINE**

Auralee had put periodic alarms in Christyn’s phone with reminders that said eat something, which were helping. When her phone buzzed in her pocket around lunchtime at work, she’d order herself a little something from the kitchen, usually a side of Alfredo sauce with some bread to dip it in, or a kids’ grilled cheese. She had fallen away from the use of utensils at home, simply because she lacked the energy to wash them and didn’t want to add to the pile in the sink. It was a habit she took to work with her, and once, when Topher caught her carefully peeling the yolk out of a hard-poached egg on her break (she only wanted the yolk, okay?) he gave her a horrified look like he’d seen her performing open-heart surgery on a conscious patient without any gloves.

It was a strange way to live, but at least she wasn’t losing any more weight. (Auralee had been right; Christyn was too depressed at first to feel it, but her body wasn’t responding well to such a drastic reduction of itself. Her energy levels at work had tanked, and as fall rolled in, the flu hit her like a truck.)

It struck her one day that this was the longest she had gone without any sort of amorous companionship since she had entered her twenties, but even though she was now receiving more male attention than ever before, she wanted none of it. The bar regulars who only flirted with her now that she was thinner drove her to white hot anger inside with their advances. The worst were the ones who told her she looked ‘so much healthier’ now. It took all of her self control not to demand to see their medical licenses...or deck them. (No, she had to remind herself, it wouldn’t be worth it, catching another charge over some sad clown who lived in a hotel.) She wanted to set fire to every so-called ‘health’ magazine publisher in America, bomb every liposuction clinic and diet pill manufacturer.

***

It was just as she was getting into her car to drive home at the end of the night that her phone buzzed. That was weird...it wasn’t time to eat. When it kept buzzing, she registered that she was getting a phone call. It was one of her tenants. She put in her earpiece as she put the car in drive. “What have you got for me?”

“Hey listen, this short white chick and this dude who said he’s your lawyer just pulled up at the house unannounced--”

“Zeke and Beans!” Christyn exclaimed. She missed Beans, and it had been too long since she had seen Zeke outside of a courtroom setting.

“So you do know these people?”

“Yes, of course, what’s the problem?”

“Well, the chick got in something of an altercation with one of our guys--”

“Yep, sounds like Beans.”

“And we got ‘em in a room right now with three of our guys, with guns--”

Christyn paled. “Oh my god, tell them to put the guns down!”

“Aight fellas, Chrissy said put the guns down.”

In the background, she heard Zeke shout, “Hear that? Chrissy said put the guns down!”

When she arrived home, Zeke and Beans were shaken, but unscathed. “Damn, girl,” said Zeke, “I get that you lonely, but don’t you think this too many roommates?”

“Shut up, Zeke,” said Sabine in a rare display of disagreement with him, slapping him lightly in the arm. “Chrissy, we came to ask you for a place to crash. Just for a little while.”

“Yeah, sure, stay as long as you like. Did your lease fall through?”

“Not exactly. Zeke, you want to show her?”

Zeke pulled out his phone and handed it to Christyn with a video playing onscreen.

“I didn’t think my brother Lee would come calling. He never does, but I guess he heard it through the grapevine that I was feeling under the weather, so he comes over with some of Grandma’s soup for me, and, well…”

Christyn watched as in the video, Sabine’s brother started raving in her doorway. “...Always knew you were some sorta way, but here I find you shacked up with a goddamn--”

Christyn blushed as the ranting and raving continued. “Your brother has a very...colorful vocabulary, Sabine.”

Zeke snorted. “She really said colorful vocabulary!”

“Is it cool if I mute this?” asked Christyn.

“Yeah, sure, you don’t need the sound after this point,” said Zeke.

“Luckily, Zeke thought quick enough to start recording,” said Sabine.

“Hate speech ain’t protected in a court of law,” Zeke explained. “That, and technically, ol’ boy was trespassing. Which means Beans was perfectly justified to do this…”

The Sabine in the video left the frame for a moment, and when she came back, she was holding a wooden chair, with which she proceeded to crack her brother in the face so forcefully that it broke.

“Not how I personally prefer to break furniture, but nice work, Beans.”

“Fuckin’ done with you,” Zeke muttered.

“He’ll be out of commission for a while,” said Sabine. “I just don’t want him to come back and bring the cousins.”

“Well, like I said, stay as long as you like.”

***

Christyn went through the motions. She woke up. Her phone buzzed. She ate a piece of bread with ketchup and went to work. Her phone buzzed. She ate a cup of salsa. She took a smoke break. She struggled to change a keg until Topher came to help her. Sten relieved her for the night shift. Her phone buzzed. Another piece of bread, or two, if Auralee was around to chastise her: “That’s all you’re eating?” Eventually, Auralee started buying the thick bread.

She ran into Auralee and Alex making suck-face up against the fridge. Or Zeke and Sabine in the living room. Or Hope and L’vonte out by the pool on days when she drove up from Houston to visit. Eventually, she decided they should have a system so that everyone could have their privacy and started a spreadsheet where people could book a time slot in a certain space around the house and expect not to be disturbed.

As for Christyn, she returned to the sex shop Alex had brought her to and perused their selection of porn, but nothing appealed to her. She did buy some more of that pheremone perfume Auralee had introduced her to, though; she was running low. The company that made it had discontinued Angel Cake, but the shop girl recommended another one to her, Deadly Sin, that smelled just like cherry pie. She had nobody to impress, but she did find the perfume improved her tip percentage marginally.

She started writing trashy feedist fanfiction about this new show she was watching to help her fall asleep, one of those sword-and-sorcery dramas with a brooding hero and a cute baby-faced sidekick who, if you asked her, could stand to gain a little weight.

She went to court, and once again, her trial was deferred.

The monotony was broken when Serenity came home one day out of a job thanks to a bad review from an angry customer. Serenity was crying, and Christyn, for once, didn’t know what to do. If this was a simple matter of workplace mistreatment, they could all call someone--they were about 40 strong now, and 40 calls wouldn’t go unnoticed. But Texas was an at will state; your boss was justified to let you go for anything.

That was when Sabine chimed in: “This asshole who left the review, did he put his name on it?”

“He did. I saw it. They have to, on this site,” said Serenity, pulling up the review on her phone.

“Perfect,” said Sabine. “If we have his name, we can find his house.”

***

It was Alex as the getaway driver, along with Serenity to serve as lookout, Sabine as head of the operation, and Christyn, at Sabine’s insistence, to help her out with the hands-on bit, because the ‘fearless leader’ of the Server House ought to know how to do these things.

Christyn didn’t like to think of herself as the leader of anything, but Sabine was adamant that these people looked up to her. She had already been leading them without really meaning to, and now, it was time to step out of the phone booth and onto the battlefield.

So there they were, pulling up in front of an expensive estate house in the Tanglewood area.

“Aight, Chrissy, come out here and give me an extra set of hands,” said Sabine.

Christyn giggled. “Did you just say ‘aight'? I think Zeke is rubbing off on you.”

Sabine stammered incomprehensibly. Christyn couldn’t see it, but she was sure the young woman was blushing.

It was a long walk up the driveway for the girls as Serenity stood watch near the edge of the property and Alex rolled the car another block up the road for stealth. “Damn, this is a big enough property, and the car is far enough away from the house,” mused Sabine. “I think we should do the gas tank instead of the engine block. Sends a more powerful message. I just wish I brought more thermite, so we could do both.”

“Thermite?” Christyn knew Sabine had explained to everyone what they were doing on the car ride, but she was having trouble focusing lately.

“Thermite,” said Sabine, hefting the duffle bag slung over her shoulder, “is a combustible powder consisting of a fuel source, in this case, aluminium, and a metal oxide, in this case, iron oxide.” As they reached the car, she set down the bag and opened it, pulling out a terracotta flower pot. “Hold, please.”

Christyn took the pot, which Sabine proceeded to fill with a powder from a large metal drum. “Thank you. Now, we align the thermite with the fuel tank…” Sabine took the pot and placed it on the roof of the car. “Stick in the fuse...cover this whole badboy up…”

They walked the fuse all the way to the road, where Sabine lit it up. “And now we run like the devil!”

Sabine beat her to the car by seconds, and by then, the fuse had burned out. Christyn could see the thermite start to burn white hot on the roof of the car, melting through the metal and into the interior.

“Drive, drive, drive, drive!” screeched Sabine, and as Alex took off, Christyn struggling with her seat belt, the blast from the explosion shook the whole road. The mushroom cloud bloomed orange and angry in the rearview. “And that,” she said, “is what we do to assholes who leave shitty reviews.”

***

A soft knock sounded at the doorway before Sabine called in, “Chrissy, can I come in?”

“Sure, we’re all decent.” Well, as decent as they could be in a poorly ventilated house with dozens of people living in it. It was the coldest winter Houston had seen yet, but nobody felt the chill. It wasn’t uncommon for the men in the house to go shirtless while the women walked around in loose nightshirts and panties. There were five in the room, Christyn included, but all of her roommates were lying in bed with headphones on while she lay in her own with a pen and some hotel stationary.

“What are you writing?” asked Sabine as she entered the room. “More of your fat gay fanfiction?”

Christyn turned over the notepad. “How did you know about my fat gay fanfiction?”

Sabine rolled her eyes. “Auralee reads it at work. She says you’re pretty good.”

Of course. She should have known.

She was actually writing a letter to Damian that she wouldn’t be able to send as long as her trial was going on. She’d written several of them and stashed them under the floorboards. It made her feel a little better to pretend she could tell him about her day, but she didn’t want to admit it to Sabine. “Yeah, I was writing fat gay fanfiction. This one’s gonna be the fattest and the gayest yet. I’m having the protagonist put on at least two hundred pounds, I haven’t decided on a final number yet. But I do know there’s gonna be a lot of anal sex.”

“Well, that’s just swell,” said Sabine, and she didn’t pry. “Anyway, I just came to make you an offer. I was thinking, it’d look pretty bad to the people if their fearless leader ever got taken in by the cops on one of our little outings.” Since their first epic act of vandalism, there had been half a dozen more petty revenges enacted by the Server House against acts of industry injustice, three of which Christyn had actually been present for. Like it or not, she was becoming something of a cult leader. “I could help you combat train, if you want.”

“That’s a good idea,” Christyn agreed. “I mean, I’m kind of dreading the idea of an exercise regimen, I feel like garbage all the time, but I really should pick up some skills, shouldn’t I?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” said Sabine. “If we’re going to do this, you’re gonna need to eat more than a piece of bread with some ketchup for every meal.”

Training with Beans did improve her appetite--or maybe it just took her mind off of all the things that depressed or scared her so she could swallow without feeling like she was choking. At 125 (yes, Auralee was still monitoring), her strength was coming back to her and she was no longer lagging at work. Topher never complained, but she could tell by his elevated mood on the clock that he was relieved to no longer have to do the majority of the workload.

Beans was a dirty fighter, too, and as Christyn picked up her tricks while honing her own technique, she became confident that not only could she evade arrest if she needed to, but incapacitate any poor sonofagun who tried to arrest her.

***

“We did it, guys! Fourteen bucks an hour and healthcare!”

The Server House was now 60 strong, comprised of industry workers from all over the greater Houston area, including Shane, Felipe, and a few other people from McCarthy’s, along with Javier Winrock, who Christyn had taken home and cleaned up after she found him panhandling for change. He had yet to find a job, but he was trying his best to straighten out his life. He regularly attended AA, too. So far, he had racked up sixteen desire chips.

Almost everyone from the hotel bar and a couple of the front desk clerks also lived under the roof, and with that sort of manpower, they decided it was time to mobilize against the hotel at last. For months, they compiled evidence, photographing every health code violation (and planting a few themselves), documenting every tip theft, and recording their conversations with the owners. Then, at last, they picked a day and all refused to show up for work. One of the front desk girls had hacked into the security camera feed, and all day they watched and laughed as Robert struggled to check people in and Sylvia nearly burned herself on the stove in the kitchen again and again.

When they came back to work, they had a list of demands, and too much dirt on the place for ownership not to cave.

Returning triumphant, Christyn led her coworkers into the kitchen with a case of beer balanced over one shoulder, which she put down with a soft thud on the island countertop. “Alright, so what’s the plan? Who’s gonna stage the next strike? Santiago, you said your other job treats you rough, too, right?” she asked, but nobody was listening. Most of them had already started reaching for beers. “Um, guys...those aren’t cold yet,” she said, but that didn’t deter them. Most of them had already pregamed before the negotiation with the hotel owners and were too drunk to care. One of the line cooks, Ismael, broke his beer bottle open against the kitchen doorway and started chugging.

Then, he choked and promptly collapsed.

“Come on, stop fucking around, man,” said another cook. Christyn dug for her phone in her purse.

“He’s choking on glass, or else he’s got it in his lungs. We have to call 911!”

“Yeah, okay, great, call 911,” Topher snapped, “and then you can be the one to explain to the cops why there’s sixty of us in here, all stockpiling notes on how to blackmail our employers! Or why the guys from McCarthy’s are building a guillotine in the backyard!”

“He could die!”

“We’re at war, Chrissy! There’s going to be casualties!”

Sten knelt down next to Ismael and took his pulse. “He’s gone.”

Christyn’s eyes welled with tears.

All she’d wanted to do was get a little justice for the working class. Now, she’d completely lost control of the situation, and someone had died under her roof. What would Damian think of her now?

“I’ll get a shovel,” said Topher as the crowd dispersed.

***

The Server House was an organism with a heartbeat and a consciousness and a metabolism all its own. It was bloodthirsty. It consumed the souls of industry workers and spat out instruments of vengeance. Even the most docile managers’ pets eventually clamored for their employers’ heads on pikes after a while under the roof as they met other hospitality workers, exchanged horror stories, and realized that being mistreated at work shouldn’t be normal.

The guys from McCarthy’s all burnt their fingerprints off with pineapple juice before disassembling the guillotine, transporting it to the restaurant in separate cars, and rebuilding it in the foyer in the dead of night. Christyn read on the news that while the blood on the restaurant floor matched Libby McCarthy’s DNA, the police department couldn’t open a homicide investigation in the absence of a corpse. (She guessed Auralee had gone along to help; she was the resident expert at recycling corpses.)

Eventually, Zeke and Beans moved out. Sometimes Christyn wished she could do the same...but every time she heard of one of her servers getting the short end of the stick from the boss, she was reminded of the duty she had taken on by bringing them all together. Now that the movement was well underway, she couldn’t abandon it.

It was dirty work, but there was still so much of it to be done.


	31. THIRTY

**THIRTY**

Damian stirred from the bible he was reading in bed (not his choice of literature, but it was all there was to read around here) as a volunteer in a tan shirt bearing the Ebenezer Baptist Hospital logo inched her way into the room. She was good-looking and probably his age--actually, maybe a little younger. She could have been in college. Had he really spent his 21st birthday behind bars? It was a cute white girl with brown hair and glasses, wearing a nametag that said, Hello, my name is Michelle. Her high-waisted navy blue pants cut a clean line between the top and bottom halves of her curvy figure in a way that he found quite pleasing to the eye, and what’s more, she was holding a tray of food. He couldn’t help himself from experiencing a certain...reaction.

“Oh, good, you’re awake!” she said. “You’ve been sleeping a lot since you got out of surgery. It’s beef stroganoff tonight, by the way.” As she moved to set the tray on his lap, he pulled the covers over himself to hide his situation. “Oh dear! Are you cold? I could adjust the thermostat.”

“No, it’s not that, I just…” He was already red in the face; he might as well admit it. “I ain’t seen a female in a long time, and I wanna be like, respecting you.”

“I see.” Her cheeks pinked. “Well, the Devil tempts us all. You’re a good man, Damian. I can see why our Father loves you. I was speaking with the surgeon: apparently, the blade missed your right lung by millimeters. You might have died.” She set down the tray and he dug in. Noodles in a brown gravy with strips of beef...steamed green beans and a side salad...a piece of chocolate cake and an ice cold can of soda. None of the food was very flavorful, but Michelle had given him a salt packet to remedy that, and more importantly, it was enough. He hadn’t had a satisfying meal since the last time he was in the hospital. Maybe he should get himself injured more.

“I heard that you were attacked by a racist,” said Michelle, sitting by his side now as he sucked the last crumbs of cake from his fork.

“I was asking for it.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Damian. No one gets to choose the color of their skin. What happened to you was not your fault. And the man who attacked you will pay for his sins.”

“Thanks, Michelle.”

He wasn’t even religious.

And it was totally his fault he was in the hospital.

What happened was this: a new guy turned up at the jail, to the instant distrust of the other inmates. Damian heard it through gossip that the man was Cormac Mathison, a suspected Klansman who had gotten convicted after attempting to burn down the wrong motherfucker’s house. None of the guys in the cell block wanted him around, and a few of them were talking about killing him.

“Y’all tryna catch another charge?” Weezy asked the conspirators one day in the rec yard. “Look, if we really wanna get rid of this guy, we gotta get him to strike first. Get him to catch charge instead, launch his ass straight to federal.”

“Aight bet, who’s gonna take the hit?” somebody asked, and everyone looked straight at Weezy.

“Man, why I gotta be the human sacrifice?”

“I’ll do it,” Damian volunteered. Weezy had had his back since he got here. Be fucked up not to return the favor.

So, the next day as he was distributing lunch trays to the other prisoners, he handed Cormac his and said, “Ey, Mathison, you related to a girl name Sabine?”

Cormac glared. “I swear to God, if you touched my cousin--!”

Well, that had worked out perfectly. Now to provoke him a little.

“Hey, don’t worry about Beanie, man. She out here makin’ y’all ancestors proud. She like to do it real rough, with the whips and everything. Likes to be called Mistress.”

“The fuck you just say to me?” Cormac reached across the line, grabbed Damian by the collar, and slammed him to the counter.

The other guys shoved him out of the line and Damian staggered back, choking out, “Have a nice day!” wearing his best customer service smile.

Unfortunately, that little scuffle wasn’t enough to draw the guards’ notice, but Cormac earned his place in federal prison a few days later when he shanked Damian multiple times in the back.

“How are you feeling?” asked Michelle.

He was feeling fine, but he had learned from his last hospital stay that it could benefit him to play weak. “Better...still a little faint, though.”

“You poor thing! Your blood sugar must be low,” she said. “I know! You just go back to your reading, and I’ll go get you another soda from the cafeteria. And, if they have any left, maybe another piece of cake, too!”

The door closed behind her as she left, and he smirked to himself. “Praise the Lord!”

***

The intermittent numbness in Christyn’s legs was getting worse. Now that she had health insurance, she decided to get it checked out. She made an appointment and allowed the doctor to examine her before he sent her down to radiology. Once the X-rays came back, he tutted and gave her a serious look.

“Ms. Brandywine, have you recently lost a lot of weight?”

“Is forty pounds a lot?” She wasn’t even trying to be sarcastic. After her dabblings in feedism, she really didn’t know anymore.

The doctor looked shocked. Christyn glanced off to the side, backpedaling.

“I did manage to gain some of it back...anyway, the last time I was at the doctor’s, they said I was overweight for my height.”

“Look, I don’t know what your primary care physician told you, but dropping such a large amount of weight, especially in a short period of time, isn’t healthy. You do need some body fat.”

“There’s no winning, is there?” muttered Christyn, repeating the words she’d heard Auralee say dozens of times.

“This is serious, Ms. Brandywine. Drastically reducing the amount of cushioning in your body can cause spinal misalignments even in people with healthy spines, but in your case, with your pre-existing spinal troubles…”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, you’ve already delayed surgery for far too long, and now, it’s become urgent.”

“How urgent?”

“If you don’t get this operation, you will be bound to a wheelchair before you’re forty.”

***

The surgery went smoothly, and so did the recovery. Christyn was off her feet for weeks, but not so long that she was forced to miss the next Rodeo. Not that she would have minded sitting it out, but the money was always decent, and she still had legal fees, so she figured she might as well go.

It was toward the end of summer that things took an unexpected turn. Instead of the usual court proceedings, the prosecutor had requested a special hearing. There’d be no jury. Instead, a panel of three judges would determine whether new evidence would be admissible in the criminal trial.

Christyn was a mess of fried nerves in Zeke’s passenger’s seat en route to the courthouse. She had insisted on carpooling for the sake of the environment--that, and she was too anxious to drive. Neither of them knew what kind of new evidence might have surfaced against her. Both were avoiding the subject.

“How’s Beans?”

“She good. Whenever the hot water goes out at the new apartment, she takes a cold shower anyway and pretends she getting tortured by the CIA. I’ll hear her interrogating her own self in there...it’s kind of cute.”

Christyn snorted.

Then they pulled up at their destination, and her insides tied themselves into knots.

The prosecutor was already present when they entered the courtroom. “Good, you’re early,” he said. “You’ll have to excuse my witness, who has a long drive in from Spring, but should be here on time.”

That filled Christyn with even more dread. She immediately thought of Jesse. Had he somehow managed to obtain proof of her association with Damian? Had he figured out where she lived? Who had sold her out? Was it Alex? Had he spied on them? Taken pictures? Was prison the damnation he had in mind for her?

Then, a minute before the proceedings were scheduled to start, in walked Lily in a red leather pantsuit with a shit-eating grin on her face.

Ooh, that bitch.

Christyn kept her face neutral, knowing if she showed any sign of recognition, it was over.

“What is this?” asked Zeke.

“I’m here to offer eyewitness testimony,” said Lily.

“And who are you?”

The prosecutor gave her a protective pat on the shoulder. “You can save it for the bench, honey.”

Soon, Lily was called to the stand. “Would you please state your name for the court?” asked the prosecutor.

“Lilith Cable.”

“And what is your relationship to the defendant?”

“I work with her at ABC Hospitality.”

“And how do you know Damian Mendez?”

“He’s my brother."

There was a murmur amongst the judges.

“Do you have reason to believe that your brother was in contact with the defendant before the theft of her vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“That reason being…?”

“Well, I went to her house and he was there.”

“By that, do you mean Ms. Brandywine was harboring him as a fugitive?”

“Objection! Counsel is leading the witness,” Zeke interjected.

“Sustained.”

The prosecutor took a step back. “Did it appear as though your brother was living with the defendant?”

“‘Living with’ is a generous term here. ‘Held in captivity’ might be more appropriate,” said Lily, her voice venomous.

“By that, you mean…”

“Well, she was forcing him to get fat, for one thing,” said Lily. The judges exchanged an uncomfortable look. “I managed to swipe her notes while I was there. I submitted them for evidence, if that will help the case. I just want to see this sick woman brought to justice.”

Christyn could have fainted.

After some negotiation, Zeke managed to get them granted a short recess, but the prosecutor didn’t seem confident in him: “I would advise that you come back with a sample of your client’s handwriting, and pray to your higher power for a mismatch.”

She could tell the gears in Zeke’s mind were working as they walked to the law library down the street, but she couldn’t stop herself from internally playing out the worst of case scenarios. When he sat down in front of a computer, she practically collapsed into the seat next to him, babbling and hyperventilating, her eyes blown with fear. “Oh god...I’m going to prison. I’m going to prison, and I’m gonna be in the tabloids! They’ll give me some grotesque nickname, too. Oh, fuck. They’ll call me the Witch of Richmond! And then when I get out of fucking prison, no one will hire me for a foodservice position! Then I’ll have to learn how to be a code monkey, and I’ll have to work in a shitty cubicle, probably next to some skinny white guy named Brad...and of course, Brad will start hitting on me, until a bunch of our coworkers come to warn him, all like, ‘Ooh, be careful of that one. She’ll make you as big as a house. Don’t you know that’s the Witch of--"

“Chrissy, pull your whole ass together!” Zeke snapped. “Ain’t nobody going to prison, ‘cept maybe Ms. Red Leather in there. That’s the rapey sister, right?”

Christyn forced her breathing to slow. “Yes, that’s her.”

“You mentioned once that Damian had taken out a protective order?”

“Auralee has a copy. If she’s at work--”

“Already found it.”

They returned to the courthouse, where Zeke presented the protective order. “What has this got to do with the case at hand?” asked the prosecutor as he began to examine the first page. “My witness isn’t the one on trial here.”

“No, but if you keep reading, you will realize that it’s impossible for Ms. Cable to have had a meeting with Damian Mendez without an appointed court official present, unless she was in violation of her no-contact order. So unless she’s blatantly lying about the entire encounter which she’s described on the stand...or, unless she had worked out a deal with an unnamed third party which allowed her to bypass being charged for her own infraction…”

“What are you insinuating?” asked the prosecutor.

“I’m not insinuating anything. You just seem to be skimming that protective order pretty quick. Not that it means anything. It’s not like you knew. In fact, I’ll put money on both you and Ms. Cable passing a polygraph with flying colors to prove it.”

Christyn’s case was thrown out shortly thereafter, all charges dropped.

***

Ever since he got out of the hospital, Damian had enjoyed a new popularity amongst the inmates for taking one for the team in order to get a public enemy out of the cell block. Or it could also be because everyone thought he was dating a Mathison. Sabine’s family name really carried weight from Texas to Virginia. Apparently, the Mathisons were insanely rich, unfairly powerful, extremely politically involved, and notoriously, destructively racist. Everyone on the outside was afraid of them--well, of the ones who weren’t behind bars, at least. To have ‘turned’ one of them was seen as a next-to-impossible accomplishment. Over the next few weeks, the inmates bombarded Damian with questions about Sabine: what she was like, how he had convinced her to ‘renounce the old ways,’ whether or not she had been disinherited, if she was good in bed. He made stuff up as he went along, well enough that nobody knew he was lying.

As the months passed, he ended up in the hospital a few more times--once after an actual fight but twice for urgent and completely imaginary health emergencies. He was getting pretty good at faking sick, and before too long, he had the others doing it too, for a night outside the prison walls with a decent meal and a comfortable bed. Weezy even figured out how to induce vomiting, though he refused to let Damian in on the secret, not that Damian would have wanted to take it that far, anyway.

Then one day in late Fall, a guard came to his cell and rapped a club against the bars. “Get up, Mendez. The warden wants to see you.”

He was escorted to the Warden’s office in handcuffs, and once they got there, the guard sat him down in a chair and cuffed his ankles, too. The two sets of cuffs were connected by a metal rod so that he was quite paralyzed in his seat as the warden stared him down across his desk.

“Mendez, what am I gonna do with you?”

“Did I do something wrong?” Damian asked timidly. More and more he was learning that there was a time and a place to be defiant, and it wasn’t when his wrists were shackled to his ankles.

“Why don’t we go down the list? You’re always in an altercation, but somehow you always get off scot free. Either that, or you’re always in the hospital. You and the rest of that whole cell block. Is this some sort of uprising you’re plotting?”

“Uprising? C-c’mon, you really think I could start a uprising? I don’t even know if I can spell ‘uprising,’” said Damian, hoping this was not the day he got sent to federal. “Just tell me what you want.”

“I want you out of here, and so does the court,” said the warden. “You and your merry band of hypochondriacs are costing the state too much money. What was it last week: an ambulance to St. Ebenezer over a false alarm for internal bleeding?”

“I been stabbed in here. I was in pain. I got worried.” Technically, they couldn’t prove he hadn’t been in pain.

“I’m sick of dealing with you, Mendez, plain and simple. Unfortunately, there’s nothing you can be charged with. However, you’ll be eligible for parole in seven months, and if I pull some strings, I can make it one.”

Damian didn’t know what to say. Was he dreaming? “Wow...thank you.”

“I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for me, and on one condition.”

“What? Anything.”

“I never want to see you in my prison again.”

***

It was Christyn and L’vonte’s turn to cook dinner for the house. She was absently tossing pasta with Alfredo sauce and beef tips in a red wine reduction in separate pans on the stove while he assembled a gargantuan bowl of salad when her phone rang.

“Auralee speakiiiiing!” slurred Auralee.

Christyn snorted and rolled her eyes. “You say that when you answer the phone, Aura, you drunk disaster. I know it’s you, I have caller ID. Anyway, aren’t you at a show?”

“Yeah, and we just let out. Listen, though, I have something importantly urgent to tell you.”

“Let me have it, then, Redundancy Department of Redundancy.”

“I was just checking the District Clerk’s records after the show, and--”

The rest of Auralee’s sentence was lost as she let out a scream. There was a clatter, like she had dropped her phone.

Christyn’s stomach did a backflip. Suddenly, the pasta she was making seemed completely unappealing, even though she had already taste-tested it and found it delicious. Was her trial back on? Or worse: had Damian had time added to his sentence?

When Auralee returned with Alex in tow, Christyn’s worry shifted to the shaken redhead. Auralee’s phone screen was cracked and as soon as she made it inside, she went straight for the liquor.

“What happened?” Christyn asked Alex.

“Well, you know Aura’s been pretty open with the media lately about the feedism thing. Not that I mind. In fact, I find it preferable to being hounded about my mental health. I’d rather people know I put the weight on for her. But not everybody has been understanding. Some people think being a feeder makes her inherently abusive.”

If you asked Christyn, that whole relationship had started out abusive on both ends, but she was glad those two were getting over their toxic behaviors, at least concerning one another. Auralee was still very much a serial killer, and Alex could be a real asshole when he didn’t watch himself.

“Some bitch decided to throw something at her out of a bucket,” Alex continued. “I managed to pull her out of the way, but when the liquid in the bucket hit a parked car, it stripped off the paint. She’s terrified. Rightly so. I just hope people will be cool once we go on tour.”

“Say, did she happen to mention some important thing she wanted to tell me?”

“No, she’s just been freaking out for the last half hour.”

In the morning, Alex and Auralee left for another statewide tour before Christyn woke up. She waited for bad news, watching her phone for a call from Zeke or the Fort Bend County Court, telling her she wasn’t off the hook yet, or Damian had caught a charge.

It blew her mind the next week when she ran into him in the middle of the night at the supermarket.


	32. THIRTY-ONE

Part 5. The Good Word

**THIRTY-ONE**

Christyn had become the most terrifying person she knew.

Her first instinct was to be a little cold to Damian. This was for his own protection. She offered to take him in, for now, but thought to herself that in a few months, when he was back on his feet and didn’t need her anymore, if he decided he wanted nothing more to do with her and the Server House, it would be the safest thing for him.

Only, it didn’t even take a whole car ride before her resolve broke and she was declaring her love.

Morally, she knew she should let him go if that was what he wanted. And she would. But it would hurt so much, she wasn’t sure she would survive it.

She observed him as he took in the changes she’d made to the interior of the house. The living and dining rooms were now cramped with cheap furniture to seat at least 30, which was about twice as many as were off work and home at once at any given mealtime. He seemed guarded, and he was right to be; she’d shacked up with almost a hundred people he didn’t know. She followed him closely into what had once been the master suite, now with its four sets of triple-decker bunks, one against each wall, some of them occupied by sleeping workers. She’d had each of the rooms outfitted the same way for a maximum occupancy of 120.

The bathroom light was off, and Christyn said, “If you’d like to get yourself cleaned up, now would be a good time to do it. The bathroom won’t stay vacant for long.”

“I don’t get it,” said Damian. “All this time, I thought you’d be mad at me...I didn’t think you’d want me back.”

“Oh, Damian…”

She knelt down beside the bed she slept in and pried one of the floorboards off of the floor. “Here’s your stuff, by the way,” she said, handing him his wallet, ID and social, his prepaid card and almost $6000 in cash that he managed to save up at the bowling alley, along with several sheets of folded up hotel stationary.

“What are these?” he asked, thumbing through the letters.

“I...I wrote. I just couldn’t send them, since our cover story in court was that I didn’t know you. If I’d had any contact with you, my story would fall apart, I’d do jail time, everything you’d done for me would have been in vain, and Zeke’s reputation as a lawyer would have been destroyed.”

She watched him skim over the letters one by one. About halfway through the stack, he let out a laugh. “Alex took you to the dildo store?”

“Not only that, but he was earnestly frightened by my, uh, choice of instrument. You should be proud of your ability to implicitly intimidate other men from inside a locked cell.”

A little red in the cheeks, he returned to reading. The second half of the letters detailed the formation of the Server House. Soon, he got to the last one, the one she’d written after Ismael had bit the dust. In the letter, she had poured her heart out about what a dangerous game she’d gotten herself into without even realizing it. While she’d organized these workers in the hopes of creating a local climate where blue-collar people could live in comfort and happiness, never afraid of retaliation from cruel and capricious employers, she feared that taking up the mantle of head tactician in what could only be described as a class war was turning her into someone Damian would no longer love.

“Are you kidding me?” he said at last.

Once upon a time, he had asked her if she was shocked to hear of his deepest secret, and she had replied, it wasn’t that weird.

They’d just impeached a President.

And now, in the same intonation she’d used those years before, he said, “I was in jail for two years. I’ve got the shit beat out of me, I’ve seen people die, and I probably know almost as much as you now about taking dick. A dead guy or two is nothing to me.

“Besides, you’re amazing! I admit, I was a little freaked out when I saw the place...but knowing these folks actually organized...somebody had to start fighting the good fight for people like us. And knowing that person is my girl is extremely hot.”

An intense feeling of comfort and relief washed over her. It was all she had wanted to hear that she was still his girl.

She let him make use of the facilities while she returned to the kitchen to heat up something for him to eat.

She was pulling one of the leftover sandwiches from earlier that day out of the oven when he joined her, all cleaned up. “You don’t really look terrible,” she said, appraising him up and down. He was still modestly soft around the middle, although a lot slimmer than he had been before the arrest, but not death-camp thin like he had been after his very first stint in jail. “It was just a shock on my eyes--after all, the last time I’d seen you, you’d just cleared the two-hundred pound mark.”

“Yeah, jail took off about thirty, and I’d like to get back up to my record high as ASAP as possible,” he confessed. That, she could understand. The last two years must have been miserable for him, and she could see why he was eager to take all those experiences and bury them.

“Well, dinner’s served,” she said, placing the sandwich on a plate and setting it down on the kitchen table. He sat down and dug in with gusto and she stood over him, smoothing her fingers through his hair as he ate. “Don’t worry about anything,” she assured him. “I’m gonna take good care of you, okay? We’ll have you fattened back up in no time.”

“Fuckin’ love it when you talk dirty,” he said as he finished. “Is there more?”

She served him up another sandwich, along with some of the macaroni salad, and he went back to town. “This is really good. You said one of the tenants made it?”

“Yeah, there’s a schedule up on the wall there,” she said, pointing to the sign-up sheet beside the fridge where occupants of the Server House could volunteer to cook, serve, or clean up at mealtimes. “We all take care of each other here, and a lot of the folks use dinner as a chance to show off their skills so that someone else might recommend them into a better job than the one they’ve got. Plus, if you work ten shifts in a month, I waive your rent.”

“Rent?”

“I charge ten bucks a month to help cover the grocery bill, and if I have any left over I usually give it to whoever needs it most for legal fees. Turns out, the restaurant industry is full of people in trouble with the courts.”

“Don’t I know it, and you,” he said, “are too good for us.”

As he finished his second sandwich and started on the macaroni, she whispered gentle encouragements: “That’s it, keep eating, baby. You need your strength back.” Although her teasing came welcomed and seemed to invigorate his appetite, he had to tap out as soon as he had cleaned his second plate, seeming genuinely disappointed in himself.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she said, pulling up a chair next to him so she could wrap her arm around his shoulders. She was as ready to see his figure fill back out as he was to reclaim his body from the unjust legal system, but she understood some things couldn’t be helped. “Your capacity isn’t going to be what it was before jail, but we’ll work your way back up slowly.” She slipped her other hand up his shirt and found his little belly full and tight. Gently, she rubbed it in slow circles.

“Mmm, don’t stop,” he hissed between shallow breaths. “Missed this so much.”

“I bet.”

After about fifteen minutes, she asked, “What do you want now? Sleep, or sex?”

His eyes widened. “There’s too many people here!”

She smirked. “You think I wouldn’t think of everything?” She pulled out her phone and referred to the 'do not disturb' spreadsheet. “Oh, hey, the library’s free tonight.”

***

Christyn had told Damian she would exempt him from the rent, but he insisted on at least putting in his shifts in the kitchen. He started on dish, but moved up to the stove pretty quickly, and everyone he talked to approved of his cooking. “Thanks, I learned in jail,” he’d tell them, which led to a lot of conversations about common experiences. As it turned out, a lot of restaurant workers had been to jail.

He found the invitation on Christyn’s nightstand--which was technically his nightstand now, since instead of taking up a bed he’d decided to share hers--addressed to both of them in fancy script.

_You are Cordially Invited_

_To a Grand Celebration_

_Commemorating the Disinheritance_

_Of one_

_Ms. Sabine Olivia Mathison_

“Oh, good, you saw it,” said Christyn as she came out of the shower to find him skimming the letter. “Should I go ahead and RSVP for us?”

“You go ahead; I don’t know what I’m doing that day.”

Christyn scoffed. “Damian, you don’t have a job.”

“I don’t know if I want our friends to see me like this, okay?”

“What, down a couple pounds? It’s Zeke and Beans, what do you think they’re gonna do, judge you?”

He sighed. “I just don’t want their pity.”

Fortunately for him, he was putting the weight back on fast, a fact that was made obvious by the Server House’s implicit cultural pressure not to wear a shirt. Every time he passed a mirror, it seemed he was bigger than the last time he’d seen himself. He might’ve been more worried if he wasn’t so turned on, and Christyn was thrilled, always bringing him sweets from the store when she got back from work and whispering encouragements into his ear.

Her whole body wrapping around him and squeezing as they lay in bed…

The way she said, “It’s so lovely, feeling you fill out again…”

More than once, she couldn’t find time on the spreadsheet, so she dragged him to the Hotel Flamenco, where she was friendly enough with the front desk staff to score a free room. Those nights were his favorite. She would order tons of takeout and proceed to feed him and squeeze him and please him until he blacked out from the overwhelming euphoria. Then he’d wake up in the morning still deliciously full and completely spent, with her arms wrapped around him tight in her sleep as if she never planned to let go.

It was over dinner one night that Damian discovered a new side of Christyn that must have developed during their time apart. He was huddled around a table in the living space along with her and three other servers, raising a mild complaint: “Chrissy, why you won’t let me see what kind of car you drive? I promise I won’t crash it.”

“Sorry, Damian, but it’s not just about the vehicle. It’s a precautionary measure for your own protection,” she replied.

“What do you mean?”

“Now that I’m kind of leading a movement, no doubt I have some big enemies. What if someone figures out that we’re close? What if you get kidnapped by someone trying to get at me? The less you know, the more likely they are to catch on that you don’t know jack, and let you go.”

She had a point--a point he soon countered. He leaned over, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and lowered his voice so that only she would hear: “You know, the heavier you make me, the harder I’ll be to kidnap.”

A smirk spread slowly across her face. She got up and walked to the kitchen. When she came back, she was holding a plate of lemon squares. “Who wants dessert?” She put the plate down in the center of the table, and as she sat back down, she shoved two in Damian’s mouth at once, one stacked on top of the other.

He could barely control his erection. What was she thinking, getting him this helplessly horny in front of all these people? Then again, this new exhibitionist tendency of hers added a fresh degree of naughtiness to their relationship.

As he chewed and swallowed (delicious, by the way), she whispered to him, “It’s the black Smart Fourtwo.”

The week after that, he came down one morning to find everyone who was currently home in the living room, on the phone with either the Labor Bureau, the health department, or the EEOC.

Revolutionary business, he guessed.

When Christyn was between phone calls, he asked her if there was anything he could do for the cause. “Yeah, can you run down to the corner store and get me a new phone charger? This one’s screwing up.” Before he turned to leave, she tossed a set of keys at him and said, “Here, take Carolaine.”

He caught the keys in midair and gasped. “The Fiat? I thought I wrecked her!”

“I had her fixed. Now, take her. Wouldn’t want you to have to walk and burn too many calories.”

Again, that taboo thrill of knowing she wanted everyone to know exactly what she was doing to him excited him. When he got back, he might just have to pull her away from her calls.

He threw on a shirt and ended up walking after all. He wanted an excuse to get some fresh air and really feel the scope of his freedom.

“Sorry I took so long,” he told her when he returned, handing her the phone charger. “I walked. I know you told me not to…”

“That’s fine,” said Christyn. She was alone in the living room now, the others having either gone to work or gone to bed. “I just needed them to hear me say it.”

“That’s kinky for you, isn’t it?”

“It’s more than that,” she said. “You know Auralee was attacked at a show over being a feeder, right?”

“Fuck, this was when, now?”

“Just before you got back.” She came forward to close the space between them and placed her hands on either side of his hips. “You know, I used to think what I liked about this, this feeding you up business, was deviating from the norm. But the more I think about it...especially after what happened to Aura...and what almost happened in my trial…”

“What happened in your trial?” he asked, but she was on a roll with her monologue. He guessed the courtroom drama was a story for a different day.

“I’m tired of us being thought of as some sort of circus freakshow in society. To feed someone...to nurture them, to cherish and indulge them until there’s literally more of them for you to love…” She gave his sides a slow, adoring squeeze that sent tingles up his spine. “Or to want to be loved like that...there’s nothing abnormal or unwholesome about that. In fact, it should be the ideal. So I’m done with the idea of rebelling against society. I want to take this thing we have and make it normal. I want the norm to conform to us.”

Damn, she was hot when she got all cult-leadery.

There was one slight problem with her plan, though.

“That might work on the folks in here, but I can’t see it catching on with the rich-rich folks. Advertising got ‘em chasing perfection too hard.”

“This right here,” she said, slipping her thumbs under his shirt, her nails biting lustfully against his pudge, “this is perfection. And as for the one percent--good! Let them stay hungry and weak, and when the time comes, we’ll crush them under the heel of one non-slip shoe!”

He had to kiss her then. She leaned into it, biting gently on his bottom lip in the way that she knew made the breath flutter out of his throat.

As he came up for air, he tried to give her back her car keys, but she said, “Keep her.”

***

Damian got a job at ABC Hospitality as a server, cashier, line cook, dishwasher, busser, barback, and bartender--he didn’t think he could handle bartending on his own, but Christyn had assured him he already knew enough bar basics to handle the easy mixes he’d be pouring at most stadium events and concerts. To celebrate, she decided they should get out for some fresh air and a picnic in the woods far enough from the house that they would have no visitors.

It was a lovely day, and if Damian’s reactions were anything to go by, an even lovelier meal. She relished his moans of delight as he ate fresh baked bread with butter and jam, veggies smothered in a zesty cream dip, apples dunked in peanut butter, and custard fruit tarts straight from her hands while they split a bottle of white wine. Afterwards, he pulled her into his lap and held her gently, running his fingers through her hair as she sank contentedly against his body with her head on his shoulder.

It was nice, getting this sort of sweet attention from him. Usually, once he’d eaten his fill, he turned into a horny mess liable to explode in his pants, only getting cuddly once his cock was satisfied. Lately, though, he was less urgent, more contemplative, calmer in general. She wanted to credit the change in his demeanor to a greater sense of maturity--after all, he’d been a restless eighteen-year-old when they first met, and this year he’d be turning twenty-three--but she knew she was deceiving herself if she discounted the possibility that jail had changed him, too. She just didn’t like that thought.

He was unusually quiet today, and as she started to sober up, she wondered if something was troubling his mind. She sensed that there was more than just love and tenderness in his embrace. He wasn’t just giving affection...he was seeking comfort. “What’s up? Talk to me,” she said.

“Nothing. It’s dumb.”

“Damian, nothing you have to say will be dumb to me.” Okay, there was that time when he asked her how to spell ‘customer.’ And the time he asked her if a ‘quarantine’ was a type of fruit. And the time he asked her over the phone if she had her phone. But anymore, she found his oblivious moments more charming than anything else. Her precious boy...he had been through so much. He deserved to hold onto what remained of his naivete.

“It’s just...I’m worried there’s something wrong with me.”

She looked up at him in concern. “Do you feel sick?”

“No, I feel fine. But don’t you think thirty pounds is a lot of weight to pick up for just a little over a month? And I’ve barely even been trying.”

“Aww, baby.” She turned around to give him a reassuring squeeze around the waist. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. Almost everyone who loses weight ends up gaining it back, and since you haven’t been actively trying to keep it off, it’s bound to come back on much easier.”

“You sure? I just don’t wanna drop dead one of these days cause it turns out one of my organs fucked up.”

“If you feel fine, I’m sure you’re fine,” Christyn repeated. “But if you want a second opinion, Auralee is the resident expert on these matters.”

So the next day over dinner, he consulted Auralee, who gave him the same answer Christyn had, with the addition of, “This latest jail stint is sure to have slowed what was left of your metabolism. You’ll probably gain a little more weight before your body settles on a new set point. But if you’re still concerned, my brother is a doctor, you can ask him.”

So he had Auralee call her brother, and Dr. Ashton Kingston came by to make a house call. He shooed everyone else out of the library, where he took about a half hour examining Damian before releasing him. “How did it go?” asked Christyn once the doctor left.

“Not bad. He took my blood pressure and stuff and kept me talking so I didn’t even notice when he took a blood sample. He said he’d be back on Thursday with the results. Oh! I finally learned what calipers are for!”

“What do you mean, ‘finally?’”

He briefly told her about the time when he jacked a set from Auralee’s bar, thinking it was some sort of fancy beer opener. Christyn laughed at that; only he could have made that mistake.

Three days later, Dr. Kingston returned with a folder full of test results, this time refusing to step foot in the house, not wanting to deal with the 90 servers and cooks. Christyn had stepped out to lend Damian some moral support, and she clapped her hands together with a smile when Dr. Kingston handed Damian the papers and said, “I ran all the endocrine tests, checked your blood sugar and liver function, everything looks good. Couldn’t find anything wrong with the urine sample either. Your body fat percentage is sitting at a little over 30%, but given your healthy vital signs, I’d say that’s more an aesthetic matter than anything else. In short: you’re fine.”

Damian gave him an inquisitive look. “You sure? You’re not gonna tell me I need to lose some weight or else I’m up for a whole future of health problems?”

“Is...is that what you want me to tell you? Wait a minute, is this some sort of kink thing? I should have known, my sister said you were a friend of hers.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation.

Christyn took Damian’s hand and took a defensive step forward. “It’s nothing like that! He just wants a thorough prognosis.”

“Well, I can’t find anything wrong with you,” Dr. Kingston reiterated once more. “Another doctor might tell you you could die of diabetes or a heart attack down the line, but another doctor might also receive you staggering into the ER with a gunshot wound and tell you that if you just lost some weight, you’d be a smaller target. And I’m not gonna lie to you, you might die of those things one day. Thin people die of those things, too. You might also get hit by a shark or eaten by a bus...goddammit, it’s eaten by a shark or hit by a...fuck my sleep schedule right now. What I’m trying to say is, it’s not my job to divine the future. It’s my job to make sure you’re healthy now. And you’re fine.”

“I’m fine?” Damian repeated.

“You’re fine. That’ll be $4000.”

Christyn bit back an ‘I told you so’ and started counting 400 ten-dollar bills out of her handbag.

As the doctor drove back towards the city, Damian looked at Christyn and asked timidly, “Are you mad?”

“What? No, baby, no!” She pulled him into a tight embrace, grinning contentedly as his arms wrapped around her. He was bigger than the last time he’d hit the 200-pound mark--back then, his limbs had bulged with muscle from working at the bowling alley, but the weight had all come back on in pillowy plushness and Christyn liked this better. He looked so comfortable and well-cared for, and she relished the way his body yielded to hers at every point of contact.

“I was just thinking that could have gone a little better if you’d been insured.”

“Sorry,” he said, but she wasn’t angling for an apology here. She was dropping a hint.

Obviously, she would need to forego the subtlety.

Her head resting against his chest, she looked up at him and said, “You know, I could put you on my health insurance if we were married.”

She felt his heart rate race against her cheek.


	33. THIRTY-TWO

**THIRTY-TWO**

"Not really how I pictured getting married," said Damian as he got in Christyn's passenger's seat once the paperwork was signed at the courthouse. In all his daydreams, he'd been the one to propose to Christyn. He'd do it on a date, have the waiter put the ring in a glass of her favorite French chardonnay. She'd look so beautiful walking down the aisle in her dress that he would be moved to tears.

If things got any more backwards from the way he had envisioned them, in a couple years he'd be the one carrying their child to term.

But it was best to get it done quick for the insurance, and besides, Christyn didn't have time to plan a ceremony, busy as she was leading a revolution. She probably didn't want to make it over-the-top anyway.

"Sorry we don't really have time to stop for a reception, but we're already about to be fashionably late for Sabine's party," said Christyn as she keyed the ignition. Rolling down the window, she gazed out into the town scenery and smiled. "Christyn Mendez...kind of got a ring to it."

Zeke and Sabine had bought a small, quiet house in west Houston close to the bowling alley. When Damian and Christyn arrived, the party was well underway. About twenty people shuffled in and out between the backyard and the inside of the one-story house. As Christyn led the way around back, Zeke locked eyes with her and said, "The fuck, girl? You don't RSVP no more?" Nevertheless, his tone was friendly and he laughed as he handed her and Damian each a beer. "C'mon, I'll show you where the snacks at. You can get your man something to eat. Just don't be mad when you see what I made; I kinda went all out for this one."

So, Christyn and Zeke were still locked in a never-ending battle to one-up each other as the best cook, huh? It was nice to know some things hadn't changed while Damian was in the slammer.

It was while Zeke was showing off his cooking expertise on the other side of the yard that Sabine snuck up on Damian, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him around to face her. "Damian, what gives? You dodge my calls, you leave me on read…?"

She was fuming. For a moment he was afraid she'd hit him.

"Sorry Beans. It took me a minute to adjust to life on the outside again, and I guess I didn't want to burden you."

"Did it ever occur to you that as a best friend, it's my job to bear your burdens with you?"

"...Aww...Sabine…" He was touched to hear that she considered him her best friend. His eyes got wet, but he willed himself to be a man and not cry. She wrapped him up in a tight hug, and damn, for a woman almost a whole foot shorter than him, she had a strong grip.

"So, you got wrote out of the will?" he said once she had released him.

"Yeah, I knew it was coming for quite sometime now. I never liked to take my family's money anyway. And now that it's official, I decided to throw a party, just to be extra 'fuck you' about it."

They spent a few minutes catching up. Will no longer worked at the bowling alley. Molly McCready had sat him down one day after he stumbled tableside under the heavy influence of sedatives. She had asked Auralee if she could feed him alongside Ann, since he was 'clearly weak on his feet,' and Auralee had given him over without a fight. This became a regular thing, until just last month, he came down with a fatal case of insomnia.

There was a new barback, too, a girl, clocking around 120, that Sabine hadn't believed in upon first sight, but Auralee had liked her references and given her a chance. Then, on her trial run, she'd had to move a keg to the back, and when she found she couldn't lift it, she tipped it on its side and rolled it back to the walk-in. After that, Sabine was sold.

"Smart," said Damian.

"Yeah, it's nice working with someone who's got a brain."

"Hey!"

"And she's a total feeder, too. Whenever she and Aura are on the clock together, all they do is gossip. Not that Aura is there much, now that she's playing with her band. If you wanted to come back, she'd probably make you a full-fledged bartender. Oh, Virtue's not there anymore either. Apparently she went on this crazy laxative tea cleanse after some smartass at work told her he had tampered with her food? Anyway, she died of dehydration."

"Bitch had it coming," said Damian. "But I don't think I'll be coming back. Now that I'm not a wanted man no more, I'd rather not sell human flesh for a living."

"Fair. I should probably move on myself; I finally got off on that assault charge."

"But that means…"

As Damian recalled, Sabine and Zeke had planned to get married after her charges were cleared. That's when he noticed the rock on her finger. "Oh my God, lemme see that!" he said, taking her hand. "Wow...it's so pretty."

"Thanks! It was Zeke's great grandmother's. It took me forever to win his family's trust, my family's got a bit of a reputation--"

"I bet. I met your cousin Cormac."

"Oh my God, are you okay?"

That was when Zeke and Christyn returned, Christyn handing Damian a paper plate piled high with mini cupcakes, tiny quiches, vegetables with a hearty glob of a homemade-looking dip, and thick, juicy slices of brisket. "Zeke may have outdone his personal best, but I'll let you decide who the real top chef is here."

For once, the food came second on Damian's mind. "Zeke! Congratulations, man! When's the wedding?" he asked, clapping Zeke on the back.

"As soon as we can make it, bro. It would've happened earlier, only I was waiting for my best man to get out the lockup."

For the second time that afternoon, Damian almost cried with joy.

***

'209, it's good to be back,' Damian typed as a quick caption before uploading his first photo post on his blog in years. Immediately, his inbox was alive with messages, most of them to the effect of, 'Where the fuck have you been?'

He took a screenshot of all of them and uploaded that as well, attached to his answer: 'Jail lol'.

That just led to more activity in his inbox. One anonymous user (a girl, he thought) congratulated him on managing to come out of jail fatter. Sadly, he had to burst her bubble.

'Been on the outside for a while now actually. Did lose weight in there just never posted pics, didn't want to depress my adoring audience ;)'

After answering a few more questions, with the generous help of autocorrect, he was ready for breakfast. This was the only meal of the day that usually wasn't organized in the Server House, and Damian took advantage of his privacy in the kitchen to whip himself up a bunch of scrambled eggs with bell peppers, potatoes, and spices, along with a whole avocado and a few tortillas to wrap it all up in. He shuffled into the living room and turned on the TV before starting to eat. Christyn having already left for work, he had for company Alex and Auralee, who trudged inside after a night of drinking in bars (and probably sex in the Camaro), and Ruth Lambert, this pale, skinny, barely legal little thing who he guessed worked as a line cook somewhere by the way she was always eager to help in the kitchen even if it wasn't her day.

"That's all you're eating?" Alex teased, passing Damian where he sat on the couch. "I'm closing in on 270, bud, better catch up!" Alex had indeed gotten quite heavy, a fact that was highlighted by his shirtlessness. Auralee stared lovingly after him from an armchair with what looked like a wine glass full of whiskey. "Don't worry, you'll get there...if you try." He gave Damian's gut a firm, teasing smack on his way to the kitchen.

"Hey, leave Damian alone! He's trying his best," said Ruth from her place on the floor.

"It's fine," said Damian. "He's the only one competing." He was used to good-natured teasing from the guys at the house about the progress of his weight gain, with frequent pokes and smacks in the belly. If it had bothered him, he would have put on a shirt, but he was actually enjoying the attention. Maybe he was a little more bi than he thought. That, or Christyn was rubbing off on him with her public display kink.

"So, 'feedism,' is that what it's called?" asked Ruth.

Auralee leaned forward over her glass. "If it's something you're interested in, I'd be glad to elaborate on it. Damian was just a little older than you are now when I first mentored him on the subject."

"I will press you tomorrow!" Ruth promised. "For now…" She tossed a controller at Damian and fired up the gaming console. He groaned. So much of his friendship with the young tenant was centered around playing--and regularly getting his ass kicked at--first-person shooter games. "Chrissy mentioned she would be out late with Sabine after work. I figure this leaves us with at least thirteen hours of slaughter?"

Damian's heart sank. He hated these days, when he was off work and Christyn went out to save the world. He was happy for her, but self-conscious about all the time he could have spent helping her.

She never announced when she was leaving for her next great feat of vandalism. She just took off, and Damian had to hear about it through gossip.

"Can't I eat before you kill me?"

Ruth mercifully let him finish his plate, and then proceeded to murder him over and over again. Seriously, how was she so quick with her hands? He guessed she worked as a salad prep, chopping vegetables all day. She made lunch (meatball subs for the house), he made dinner (battered cod, risotto, sauteed spinach, and a side of 'fuck you, how the fuck you win again?'), and soon, but not soon enough, it was dark.

He waited up on the couch after the others had gone to bed, or at least, he tried to. By the time Christyn returned, he had passed out. It was past midnight when she shook him awake. There was blast debris in her hair.

As she helped him to bed, he asked, "What did you do tonight?"

"A few friends in the industry were being given the raw deal by the owner of their restaurant. So, just to send a message, we staked out the laundromat they also owned, waited for the employees all to leave, destroyed the cameras and blew it up." As he fell into bed, she slid a small, white cardstock box into the nightstand. "Sorry for leaving you alone. I just didn't want to put you in danger."

"What's that thing they say about forgiveness and permission?" said Damian.

Christyn sighed. "If I could stay with you all the time, I would, you know that. But I'm the leader here. The people expect me on the front lines."

"I'm not saying I want you to stay home all the time like a lil housewife. I'd never try and do that to you. I'm just saying, you could take me with you next time--"

"No! It's too dangerous!"

"Not too dangerous for you, though?"

"I've been training extensively."

"Right," he said. "I did hear you fought thirteen cops that one time."

She laughed. "Bit of exaggeration from the tenants. It was one cop, and he wasn't armed, and anyway, Auralee was the real hero that day for forcing a ruphy down his throat once I had subdued him. But even with all my training, I barely won that one, and it was terrifying. It's not anything I'd wish on you. Besides, you've been to jail how many times now? Haven't you had enough adventure?"

Adventure wasn't the point, he thought quietly. He just wanted to be with her, in all things. But, he would convince her to see things his way on some later day. She was tired, and he didn't want to stress her out more by continuing to argue.

He took the box in hand and read the label by the night's bright moonlight. "Huh...so I know you bi...how does a lesbian bakery work? Do you have to be a chick who likes chicks to shop there, or just to work there?"

She laughed. "Lebanese, not lesbian. As in, the country of Lebanon? Well, open it!"

Inside were four triangles of some kind of flaky pastry with what looked like a nutty filling between the layers of dough. "What are these?"

"You've never had baklava?" She curled up in bed next to him, took one of the pastries and held it to his lips. He bit down on the corner and his eyes widened with pleasure. It was light, sweet, delicious.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close as she fed him another bite. She had recently, finally, regained the weight she'd lost in his absence, and he relished the feeling of her softness against his own, telling him she was happy and safe--well, as safe as you could be when your hobby was blowing up buildings.

"Aight, apology accepted," he decided.

For now.

***

On an average, Damian was working three shifts a week with the agency, which left him more than comfortable after covering his share of the rent, even if his savings had mostly gone to court fees.

There was the convention center, where he picked up as a cook and had the misfortune of burning his hand on a flat-top stove after some idiot failed to say 'right behind'.

Then there was the server shift he worked at the old folks' home. He had to cut some elderly dude's chicken for him because he couldn't do it himself--it wasn't a pleasant experience. When he came home, he told Christyn all about it and said, "I know we like to play around with you feeding me, but if I ever get to that point, just pull the trigger. Right between the eyes."

"If that's how you feel," she responded, "don't let them send you up to memory care."

"That won't be a problem. I don't think I'm welcome at the old folks' home no more."

What happened was this: one of the elderly ladies in the dining room had been struggling with the pack of crackers for her soup. Damian had offered to open it for her, only to find he was having a hard time, too, with his bandaged hand.

He was still banned from possessing a firearm by the court, so, in spite, he had bought a folding knife and taught himself how to do a few tricks with it.

"So I whip it out like so, see?" he explained to Christyn while demonstrating how he'd pulled it from its place, clipped to his pocket, and flipped the blade out one-handed. "And then the poor lady faints."

"Sexy," she remarked, pulling him close by the belt loops. "But yeah, I'd say you're banned from there."

Then there was the matinee at the Houston Symphony ('matinee' being the word for a show that takes place in the daytime, Christyn explained.)

He and Christyn had the same shift, him on the register, her on the well, so they decided to carpool. She hated driving fast and they were running slightly late (his fault, he'd insisted on eating her out after breakfast), so he offered to relieve her of the duty, but once he got behind the wheel of her car, he found he was having certain difficulties.

It was...small.

Christyn had the driver's seat scooted all the way up so she could reach the pedals, the result being that his belly was pressed against the bottom of the steering wheel when he first wedged himself in. "What is it with you and small cars?" He'd been unprepared for the way he would fit behind the wheel of the Fiat and had to adjust the seat accordingly; the SmartCar was a whole nother matter entirely.

"She's fuel-efficient, okay?" said Christyn, sliding into the passenger's side. "And you wouldn't believe her turning radius."

"This one got a name, too?"

"Lizaveta," she admitted with a slight blush.

He was only able to move the seat back a few merciful inches thanks to all the garbage behind it--it was just as messy in here as it had been in the Fiat, which had taken him days to clean out. "Damn girl, I know you like junk in the trunk, but don't you think this a little excessive?"

Well, they made it on time, but the only parking they could find was the lot behind the Lancaster Hotel, and it was fifteen dollars, but fuck it. He was making fourteen an hour for this shift, and sometimes you had to spend money to make money.

When they entered the symphony hall, the little inconveniences kept adding up.

First, the manager ran out of sign-in forms. While Christyn went up to the mezzanine level to set up the bar they would be sharing, Damian was kept waiting fifteen minutes in the office for the manager to get a copy of the paperwork scanned and emailed by the agency, because apparently he didn't have a blank form saved. Then he got lost, twice, on his way to the mezzanine. Christyn was hard at work taking stock of all the inventory, having already fetched all the liquor, soda, and snacks for their station, so he decided to go back downstairs and pick up ice, only, on his way back up, he struggled to get the cart over the elevator threshold and somehow managed to knock it on its side. He was out-of-practice with heavy lifting, which made it hard enough for him to right the cart and load 80 pounds of ice back onto it. Having to do it while the elevator door hit him repeatedly in the back just felt like it was fate's way of being extra.

The pre-show rush was hectic, but at least there would be no intermission, meaning they could take as long as they wanted to break for lunch and clean up. It also meant he could lose the tie. At his first opportunity, he snatched it off and stuffed it in his pocket. God, he hated that thing.

Back on the main floor, he stood in line behind Christyn while she talked to the cook fixing their plates. "You want just the sides as usual, Chrissy?"

"Yeah, and give him my chicken and give me his mac and cheese." Oh, she knew him too well.

But…

He gave her a pleading look as if to say, that's all? She caught on immediately. "Actually, give him double vegetables, too, there's nothing sexy about vitamin deficiency. And let him get extra lemon butter sauce on the side, please?"

"So food is sexy now?" said the cook as she handed them their lunch. "What you kids up to these days?"

"I'll tell you all about it sometime, Charlene." Christyn smirked, took her bread roll, and plunked it onto Damian's plate before winding an arm tightly behind his substantial hips to lead him back upstairs. Charlene, the cook, looked bewildered.

Christyn had the remarkable ability to eat while doing math, so by the time they were done with lunch, the closing inventory was complete. She pushed a small apple crumble towards him on the counter and offered, "Dessert?"

"Are we allowed to have these?"

"I left it out of starting inventory. Our secret, kay?" she said before kissing his cheek.

It was a sweet end to what had been a stressful shift, and they might have gone on to have a perfect rest of the day if it wouldn't have started flash flooding on the drive back to Richmond.

He tried to soldier through it for the longest stretch of Westheimer. If he went slow enough, he wouldn't hydroplane, right? And this part of town was on high ground. He thought. The water wouldn't get too high. Right?

But soon the rain was coming down in sheets so thick he couldn't see 40 feet ahead of him.

He could make out the vague outline of the next car ahead, but couldn't see its taillights through the storm.

"Pull over!" Christyn had to shout over the sound of the rain, and even then, he could barely hear her.

"Where?"

"The next right."

He pulled into a strip-mall parking lot and cut the engine while Christyn checked the weather on her phone. "Well, it looks like we might as well get comfortable here."

And it kept coming down.

The humidity was unbearable. He stripped to his undershirt, folding his vest and button-down and placing them on the dash. Even still, the air seemed to hold an oppressive quality, and he didn't realize he had started to have trouble breathing until Christyn reached over the gear shift and took his hand, rubbing circles into the back of it. "Hey. You alright?"

"Yeah, it's just…" He struggled to find words, but once he was able to translate what he was feeling into something coherent, it became obvious to him why he was freaking out so bad. "I don't like feeling boxed in. It's like jail again."

"But it's different. I'm here now."

"I know...I know you got me." Still, a lump settled in his throat that he couldn't swallow.

"And it's only for another three hours, according to the weather forecast."

"Well, fuck me," said Damian.

"I would, but there's no backseat."

"SmartCar, more like smartass," he said. Then, a while later, "Shit, I don't know if I'm hungry again, or if I'm just stressed out."

Christyn smiled. "Well, you know I never turn down an opportunity to spoil my man. Come on, there's a cafe in the big bookshop."

They got out and ran until they were under cover of the row of awnings in front of the shop doorways, but even then, they were both soaked through. Christyn showed him where the bookshop was, but when he stepped inside, the whole place was filled with clanking and whirring noises that didn't sound book-related.

"Shit, that's right, they closed the bookshop," said Christyn.

It was a gym.

"I guess this is how culture dies," she sighed.

The people on the machines had all turned to stare at him. He was certainly out of place; he knew he looked like he had never touched a piece of gym equipment in his life. (And he really hadn't, unless beer kegs counted.) On top of that, the rain had practically made his white shirt see-through, putting every bulge and roll on display. Their eyes held a mix of different emotions, none of them good--disgust from the pin-thin woman on the elliptical, smug superiority from the jacked guy lifting weights. And yet, all these judgmental looks made Damian strangely excited. It was like getting validation that he was officially fat.

And it was kinda turning him on.

Christyn, however, didn't think it was funny. "What are you assclowns looking at?" she snapped. "It's flash flooding, and what are you doing? Running up stairs to fucking nowhere." There was venom in her words. He hadn't seen her this angry since Jesse Markham punched him in the face. "Enjoy being brainwashed by the media. By the way, guess how I'll sleep knowing how when the end times come, people like you will be the first to starve!"

They were promptly kicked out by management and waited out the rest of the storm in the electronics store next door.

By the time the rain subsided, Damian had no doubt that he was starving. As soon as they got back on the road, he took a left on the beltway and stopped at the fast food place where he used to work. The sign was still broken, and a few of the windows were boarded up, but there were customers in the parking lot. A paper sign on the drive-thru window declared,

_DRIVE-THRU CLOSED DUE TO SHORT STAFFING_

_PLEASE ORDER INSIDE_

_NOW HIRING_

_APPLY WITHIN_

So he parked and told Christyn, "Get your strap."

"What?" she asked, confused at first. "Oh, right, 'strap' means gun."

Once she had it strapped to her hip, he led the way inside. There was no one at the counter, but he heard someone flipping burgers in the back. There were five occupied tables, two of them still waiting for their food, which wasn't a huge crowd unless you only had one guy on shift. After a minute or so, a familiar voice shouted, "Number 24, order up!" and Damian's old pal Weezy emerged from the kitchen to throw a tray onto the pickup counter.

"Shit, Weezy, I'm used to only seeing your ass in jail!"

"And what sweet encounters, bro!"

Damian went rigid. "Really, Weezy? Right in front of my girl?"

Christyn, who Weezy must have thought was standing behind Damian in line as she lingered a few feet back to look at the menu, gaped. "You had a butt buddy?"

"Oh, shit! I didn't realize--but then, you must be Ms. Mathison?"

Well, damn. It was going to be hard enough to explain to Christyn that he'd had a prison boyfriend without having to go into detail about pretending to date Sabine for street cred. (Cell block cred. Same difference.) Fortunately for him, she played along. "Actually, it's Mrs. Mendez now."

"Man, congrats, dog!" said Weezy. "What y'all want? On the house."

They ordered quickly and picked out a table in the back to wait for their food. "So, you and Weezy, huh?"

He shrank in his seat. "Are you mad?"

"No, we never explicitly agreed to be exclusive," said Christyn. "I'm just surprised. He's so...skinny. So, did you, uh...give it or take it?"

"We didn't really do much butt stuff. He didn't like to make me starve myself for a whole day."

"You know you don't have to do that. As long as you give yourself an enema beforehand--"

"Chrissy, you are full of surprises! Am I to understand you're into pegging guys in the butt?"

So that's what she thought he meant by strap.

She laughed. "You don't have to say 'in the butt' if you've already said 'pegging'."

Weezy came to deliver their food personally. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"Yeah, I got cash if you got weed," said Damian.

"Sorry to disappoint, bruh," said Weezy. "I ain't getting caught breaking parole this time. This job is tight, man! All day long, these curvy honeys coming through...it's perfect for a, what you say the word is? Feeder?"

Christyn smiled. "Well, I think I like you, Weezy."


	34. THIRTY-THREE

**THIRTY-THREE**

Christyn wound the cool tape measure around Damian's waist as he stood facing her in his undershirt and undone dress slacks, about to head off to work once she collected some new measurements. "Yep, definitely gonna need at least the 40's, but you may as well get the 42's, just so you'll have a little room." Another ten pounds had rounded out his middle and padded his ass such that the 38's he had on would still close, but just barely, and bending over was like playing Russian roulette, except instead of a bullet to the brain, he risked having them split down the seat.

"You really want me to fill out those 42's, don't you?"

"I want you to be comfortable," she said, but her mischievous grin gave her away. She draped the tape around his shoulders. "Here, you can do this one."

He closed it loosely around his neck and tried not to think of Lily's hands there. He thought of her rarely, and never fondly. The other week, he'd heard on the news that she had been declared missing, and Auralee had said, You're welcome.

He waited for her to jot down the number and gave her the tape back. "Do you ever think about Jesse?" he asked.

"Sometimes. I try not to. Thinking about him makes me feel stupid."

"Chrissy, you are anything but stupid."

"But I spent so long letting him torture me and convincing myself I enjoyed it, when I had the sweetest, most loyal guy, who happened to be crazy about me, right behind the bar with me."

He hugged her tightly, pleased by the comforted sigh she let out as she let her body sink against his. "One day it won't hurt anymore." He wished he could hold her like that all day...but he really did have to get ready for work!

He had to suck in to do up the pants, and once he let himself breathe, his belly spilled over the waistband while his button-down grudgingly contained it, but in no way minimized it. Fastening his belt, he whined a little in pain as the buckle pushed into the bruise it had left on the soft underside of his gut the last time he'd had to squeeze into these pants.

"Poor thing," said Christyn, massaging the spot with the flat of her hand. "Y'know, maybe you should switch over to suspenders. Auralee says she's encouraged most of the men she's been with to make the switch, and they unanimously found it more comfortable."

His imagination began to run a little wild at the thought of Christyn and Auralee having casual feeder talk as a regular thing. "What else did you talk about with Auralee?"

"Well, we certainly weren't making any money or passing any Bechdel tests." She handed him his vest, which he put on but decided to leave open for the moment, and the dreaded tie, which he stuffed into his pocket.

"I never got why we had to dress so fancy to serve food to people."

"People who don't know how food is prepared have more confidence in the quality of the food when it's presented by someone professional-looking. Think about it: would you rather me serve you at a restaurant table wearing--?"

He didn't even let her finish asking the question. "Naked."

"Well, that's just a health code violation."

She sent him off with a passionate kiss, making it tempting to just stay, but he managed to drag himself to the car eventually.

The shift was easy enough. He was serving a plated lunch to a boardroom of 20 executives on the 20th floor of the BBVA corporate headquarters. Most of the work was in the setup: it took two hours for him and Sarah, the banquet coordinator onsite, to polish all the cups and utensils, then set up the room with silver, napkins, bread and butter plates, lemons, sugar, salt and pepper shakers, and finally, glasses of water and iced tea. Things might have gone faster, if not for the fact that Damian was...a little distracted.

Of course, he was happy with Christyn, and would never dare do anything to hurt her. The fact of the matter, though, was that Sarah was very beautiful. She had a round, angelic face, with wide blue eyes and plump lips, framed by light brown hair that curled gently in its loose ponytail. She was about his height, but had 50 pounds on him at the very least, most of her weight carried in her hips, rear, and thighs--he had always been a sucker for bottom-heavy women--though her soft stomach and round, perky breasts lost none of his attention, put on display as they were by her formfitting suit jacket.

As they stepped into an unused office to await the arrival of the chef, she said something to him, but it took a couple tries before he registered her words.

"I said, is this your only job?"

"Yeah, for the while," he replied.

"But you've obviously worked in foodservice before. You seem to know what you're doing."

"I been in the business since eighteen."

"Same! Except I'm 29 now," she said. "Sometimes I miss my younger days of working in dive bars--"

"Ah, c'mon, Ms. Sarah, you still pretty young. You could go back to it if you wanted to."

"Thanks, Damian. This job has its perks, though. For one thing, it's stable. Say…" She handed him her phone and said, "Would you mind terribly if I asked you to give me your contact information? That way I can give you a heads up when I'm about to post a shift to the agency. I could use an experienced server, pending your availability. I used to have a regular server from ABC, real reliable girl, but she refuses to work with us any longer. It was a nasty incident; she was a vegetarian, she told us as much, and Chef Georges went ahead and served her a shift meal full of chicken stock anyway. Poor thing bent double and threw up in the parking lot."

"Damn. Yeah, no problem. And I don't have any food allergies, so you don't have to worry about that." Somehow, it didn't feel strange giving his phone number to someone he'd just met.

Somehow, he felt like he'd met her before, as unlikely as that was. She just had one of those warm, inviting personalities that put him at ease.

Soon, Chef Georges arrived upstairs, wheeling a hotbox into the office, followed by a female cook with a cart of salad ingredients. The chef, a short little man with salt-and-pepper hair and rimless glasses, snapped at Damian while preparing the first of the salads, "Well, what are you waiting for? Start dropping these off!"

"Cool your jets, Chef," said Sarah. "How was he supposed to know they were ready?"

In the past, he might have went off on the chef, but he was calmer now, more in control of his emotions than he had been when he had first entered the industry. It helped that Sarah was there to defend him. As he brought three plates into the boardroom and set them down in front of the bankers, Sarah followed with another two, and they kept on like this until everyone was served.

After a few minutes, Sarah said they could go ahead and clear. Damian followed her lead, noticing that the salads were mostly uneaten, but no one was touching their food anymore.

On his way in and out of the unused office turned prep and buss station, the chef grabbed him around the wrist, stopping him in his path. "You serve with the left, clear from the right! Didn't anyone ever teach you how to do this properly?"

"I really don't think it matters," said Sarah.

Next, they served entrees: brown butter salmon with sides of polenta and charred broccoli. Sarah watched the clock for thirty minutes before telling him they should start clearing, even though the entree plates were not much more disturbed than the salads. At last, they served something called 'trifle' in glass cups for dessert, offered coffee, and ducked out of the boardroom. "You can clock out and take a lunch break if you want," Sarah offered, handing him an extra entree plate that the chef had put together by accident.

Damian didn't get more than three bites in. The salmon was rubbery, the polenta runny, and the broccoli wilted and unseasoned. He scraped the mostly untouched contents of his plate into the trash just in time for the chef to turn around and catch him.

"Do tell, is there something wrong with the food?" Chef Georges was red in the face, his tone demanding. He was clearly looking for a fight. Sarah gave Damian a worried look. He decided not to ruin his chances of getting invited back over some grumpy little 'chef' who wanted to start shit.

"Nah, it's good," he lied. "I'm just trying to cut a little weight is all." He patted his belly for emphasis, his tight vest not even allowing it space to move. The chef didn't seem convinced. Later on, Damian overheard him muttering to Sarah that he was 'pickier than that stuck-up vegetarian girl,' but he wasn't about to let the guy shake him.

After they cleaned up, the chef returned to the kitchen, and Sarah, who had skipped lunch, said, "I don't like the food here either. In fact, I was going to invite you to lunch at this restaurant not far from here, but that might not be a good idea. The food there is pretty heavy. If you're trying to lose weight--"

All Damian heard was 'lunch'. "Was I that convincing? I just didn't want to hurt Chef's feelings. I'm actually starving. I couldn't eat that crap, though. I've had better food in jail."

Sarah walked him to his car in the garage, and when they arrived at the green Fiat, she asked, "Do you mind? I take the bus to work."

"Oh, no problem," he said, opening the passenger door for her.

An hour later, he was leaned back in a barstool next to her. His vest and tie hung off the back of his chair and he was precariously stuffed after two glasses of rich, dark beer, half a basket of buttered rolls, and the crispiest, most tender chicken fried steak he had ever had, served with sides of fluffy mashed potatoes and green beans smothered in gravy and bacon. Not to be outdone, Sarah had cleaned her own plate, along with the other half of the bread basket and a side-order of fried mushrooms. "Thanks so much for lunch," said Damian.

Sarah smiled. "We haven't even gotten to the best part." She flagged down the bartender and ordered a piece of cookies and cream cheesecake. "Do you want your own, or do you want to just have a few bites of mine?"

A few bites were probably all he could take before he passed out at the bar in a food coma. "I bet we can share, and then if we're still hungry we can order more."

The cheesecake landed, and it was not disappointing. Damian didn't care as much as most people did for cheese in its salty, melted, yellow form, but in a cake, it was delightful. The first bite he took hit his tongue rich and sweet, and even though his belly was packed dangerously close to too full, he chanced another bite, then another, wanting to chase the flavor.

Then…

Ping!

He heard the click against the underside of the bar counter before it registered to him that the button of his shirt at the roundest part of his middle had popped off, allowing his fat to spill through the gap in the fabric, with only his thin white undershirt preserving his modesty.

He ran his thumb down his belly experimentally, simultaneously loving how big and tight it felt and fighting a boner. Not wanting to have to explain his lifestyle choices to a woman he had just met, he made an excuse: "Well shit...my wife always be shrinking the laundry…"

"Your what?"

"My...wife?"

"Oh my God," said Sarah. "I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean to be untoward. It's just that I didn't see a wedding ring...and you hadn't mentioned there was a woman in the picture...but then, people don't wear rings to work in foodservice…"

For the first time, it occurred to him that Sarah was interested in him. She'd meant to ask him on a date.

"Well, fuck. I'm sorry too. I didn't mean to lead you on or nothing, I just thought we was both hungry."

Sarah's cheeks were bright red. Damian's phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked his texts.

Christyn: Miss u boo!

Christyn: If you want u can meet me @ the hotel when I get off 2nite

Christyn: n have some room for dessert!!!

"That's her," he said. "She, uh...she says she can't wait to see me."

***

Damian didn't disappoint Christyn, turning up at the hotel lobby right at midnight as her shift ended. He had changed out of his work uniform, but even in his hoodie and sweatpants, it was undeniable how much he had grown in no time at all thanks to how small they were on him. The hoodie even rode up to expose a sliver of belly--definitely time for another shopping trip, as much as she wouldn't mind seeing him lounge around in too-small clothes all the time. After clocking out, she jumped into his arms, her breath hitching as his laughter made his abundant belly jiggle against her, his body so weighty and sturdy that her full-force pounce didn't move his footing an inch on the ground.

She practically dragged him to her room, where she had a slice of tres leches from the restaurant area ready in the mini fridge. "Are you hungry, baby?"

"You did say to save an appetite…"

She took her cue to lay him down in bed and feed him, gently, rewarding him with slow, passionate kisses after each bite. After he was done, she laid down herself and pulled him towards her. "Come on, baby," she said, "I want to feel how heavy I'm making you."

To her surprise, he resisted her, sitting up braced on one leg, unmovable. "Damian…?"

"Chrissy I've...I've never been this heavy before."

"I know. That's the point."

"But what about your spine troubles?"

"Oh, so considerate!" She linked her hands behind his neck and pulled him closer. "I love you for that. And I know you love me. Listen, though: I got the surgery."

His deep brown eyes widened with delight. "New spine?"

It wasn't quite that simple, but she'd go with it. "New spine."

He peeled off her pants and ate her dutifully, and then, when she was so wet she could scarcely bear it anymore, he rolled on a condom and buried himself in her. The soft weight of his body pressed her excitingly into the mattress, and as she gripped his pliable hips, thinking how the bulk of his belly against hers was tangible proof of her love for him, she drew closer and closer to completion.

Her fingers tangled in his jet-black curls and she sighed, "Say my name, Damian.

"Tell me you know I love you."

"Fuck. Chrissy. I. Know. You. Love me."

He exploded then, whimpering with pleasure, and her legs wrapped around his waist to hold him close and keep him inside while she rode out her own orgasm.

Afterwards, as they lay spent in each others' arms in bed together, clothes having all been cast off at various points in their lovemaking, she idly squeezed at the sexy spare tire padding his waist, pausing now and then to trace the stretchmarks running up his side with her pinky nail, when suddenly she felt him go rigid. "Did I do something wrong?" she asked, removing her hand and placing it on the bed.

"No, s'not like that." He took her hand and placed it back on his side. Then, he seemed to change his mind, wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her up in bed beside him so she was seated upright against the abundance of hotel pillows. "I kind of...went out with someone today," he confessed. "I didn't know it was like a date! She offered to buy me lunch, and the food at the bank sucked--"

Christyn burst out laughing. "You think I'd be mad? After the conversation we already had with your prison boyfriend?"

He flushed. "I just feel weird about it."

"Well, you should know by now that I'm not possessive. So, tell me: was she attractive?"

"For you, or for me?"

"Ideally for both of us."

That's when Damian seemed to get it. "You...want us to have threesomes with other people?"

"Only if you want to."

He was half-hard again at the very idea. "Dang, Chrissy, when did you get so freaky?"

"I had nothing to do while you were in jail except get freakier."

"Wait...you're telling me you had a house full of half-naked restaurant people and you never did anything with them? Cause you know, you'd have had my blessing. I ain't possessive neither. I didn't even think you'd want me back, but that would've been fine, I'm not some psycho stalker like the last guy."

"I was too sad to do any, well, hands-on experimentation," she said, "but that didn't stop me from watching porn and getting ideas. Besides, who knows, this woman might be into our particular brand of depravity. After all, she did make sure you were fed…"

***

Christyn was pleasantly surprised to learn Damian's lunch date had been with her old pal Sarah from the bank HQ. Unfortunately, Sarah proved quite difficult to make plans with. Christyn called her on the phone to invite her to dinner a handful of times, only to get the same response again and again: 'I'd love to sit down and spend some time with you and your husband, but I'm really busy with work right now. Maybe call me again in a couple days?'

How many catered events did they hold at the bank, exactly?

But it wasn't so big a deal. Christyn and Damian were more than capable of finding things to do on their own. They had become regulars at the dine-in movie theater a five-minute drive from the Server House. Damian had a fascination with movies about witches, and Christyn wasn't really a movie buff, but she relished the opportunities to take him out and show him off. Neither of them cared much for the bartender, Ginger, this crazy old woman who thought vaccines caused autism, but for some reason she became overly fond of the two of them, so they usually dined at the bar rather than in their seats, putting up with her conspiracy theories and ridiculous ramblings if it meant her sneaking an extra shot into their drinks on the house.

They hung out at the mall even if Damian's wardrobe didn't need replacement; it was just nice to walk around in there holding hands and looking through shop windows at all the things other people coveted.

And they got debauched a lot, too. Once, they both got daydrunk and decided that getting matching ink was so much more romantic than wedding rings. Another time, she came home from one of her and Sabine's outings to find him stoned out of his mind, trying on her bra. She'd almost died laughing on the spot.

She stayed busy, too, between her two jobs, and as spring came around, she found herself, either out of a sense of obligation to the staffing agency or some deep-seeded masochistic streak, returning once more to work at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo.

Her first day back at the stadium, Abigail presented her with some surprising news: "You'll be reporting to the satellite bar outside the club doors across from concessions. One of the committeemen requested you specifically."

In the three previous years she'd worked this event, she'd never learned any of the committee members' names, and of the ones she did recognize from year to year, she didn't get along with any. As she made her way to her designated station, her heart began to race with fear. What if Jesse had somehow found out she was working here and talked his way onto the committee?

By the time she reached the bar, she was near tears with panic.

She was the first to arrive, and as she was counting up the mixers, a youngish white woman wearing a committee badge joined her behind the bar. She had blonde hair and wore a checkered shirt and straw hat. She was decidedly not Jesse Markham, which let Christyn breathe a sigh of relief. "Do I know you?" she asked. "My supervisor told me I was requested at this bar."

"Must have been the other guy. I'm just tallying tickets today, someone else is stocking liquor," said the woman. "I'm Angie, by the way."

Christyn quickly forgot that, her dread returning. Then, about an hour before doors, Damian came up to her bar with her liquor bottles on a cart, along with a plate piled high with food, presumably from some committee lounge that Christyn had never actually seen. She knew the committee members got fed for free, in fact, they usually ate shamelessly in front of the bartenders, who got zip-diddly-squat in the way of benefits.

He was dressed for the occasion in a suede vest he left open so as not to constrict his plush middle, along with a button-down, jeans, boots, and a cowboy hat--she couldn't decide whether the getup was ridiculous, or kind of sexy. "You're on the committee?" she asked, a grin spreading across her face.

"I didn't want to say anything. I wanted it to be a surprise. But after how rough your first rodeo was, I wanted to help lighten your load."

The blonde looked at him, then the plate on his cart, and said, "Didn't you already eat two whole plates downstairs?"

"This one's for the bartender," said Damian, handing Christyn the plate, which held glazed carrots, potato salad, cole slaw, mac and cheese, and a warm, buttered bread roll. He had done a marvelous job at guessing her favorites, and she might have fallen straight into his arms if she didn't have work to do. "Does nobody else here feed them? Cause I'm not gonna lie, that's disturbing as fuck."

He turned to Christyn as she started on the bread roll. "You been crying?"

"It's just allergies," she lied. She wished she could have jumped him right there, let him hold her tight as she buried herself in his softness, but she had to remain professional for work.

The committee worked in three rotating teams, so every third day, Christyn could count on having someone for support who actually knew how to barback, which put her in a better position than in years past. After the concerts, she and Damian often stopped at the 24-hour fast food joint on their way home to catch up with his jail buddy. (She thought it was hilarious that Damian had told him and everyone else in the cell block that he'd been dating Sabine Mathison for clout, and happily kept up the ruse to get faster service.)

Sarah finally called to try and make plans, but Christyn was 'so busy with work,' so it would 'have to wait until the end of the Rodeo'. She wasn't miffed enough at Sarah for blowing her off so many times to shut her down entirely--just miffed enough to give her a taste of her own medicine.

***

Damian would say his first Rodeo went pretty well, as far as his own workload went. Then again, he could clearly see that the committee members were treated far better than the actual laborers. He did his best to make sure Christyn was sufficiently fed and well-attended to on the days that he worked with her, but what about the other bartenders? And the security workers, standing at the entrance all day in the Texas heat? Or the cooks in the tents outside, working long shifts while subjected to both the sun and the grills?

All around him, ticketholding guests berated employees to work faster while their children fussed and cried. Everyone was supposed to be having a great time, and yet, he felt he had only seen more misery in one other place, and that place was state jail.

And every day, when Christyn put her hand over her heart for the Pledge of Allegiance, she crossed the fingers of her left hand behind her back. He could see why she did it.

He was glad when it ended. She was a lot more tired than he was, but he had the freedom of drinking on shift and actually got to take days off. In the week following the final show, he made sure she didn't have to lift a finger around the house. She had gone back to her hotel job, but he insisted on taking her slots in the Server House kitchen, and every night when she came home, he had an old fashioned ready for her and a seat open so she could rest while he rubbed her feet and massaged her shoulders. "You're too good to me," she said once while he was working out an especially tense knot near the back of her neck. He thought to himself that there was no such thing as too good for her, but he was glad she was happy.

Then came the day when she was finally able to get ahold of Sarah and plan a dinner.

She had bummed a suite at the hotel with a kitchenette and slaved all afternoon in there, whipping up a loaf of bread and her signature calorie-bomb green dip, a whole oven-roasted chicken, whipped carrots with butter, sugar, and cinnamon, crispy, lightly charred kale, and a decadent peach cobbler for dessert, with ice cream in the freezer for a topping. Damian, meanwhile, busied himself pacing the front of the suite, and once in a while pacing on the balcony when he needed a cigarette for his nerves. When she called him over to taste-test everything, he took more than a small sample, hoping some food would calm him down. It worked, sort of.

"Are you nervous?" she asked. "You know, we don't have to do this if you don't want to. We can just as easily have a nice dinner."

"No, I want to!" he said. He knew it would make Christyn happy, and besides, ever since he'd seen that pre-op picture of Auralee, he had felt an undeniable curiosity about sex with a BBW. "It's just...what if I nut after only a minute or something like that?"

Christyn smiled. "I'm sure you'll be fine. Your stamina has increased a lot over the years. If you're really worried, just think about dead puppies to keep yourself from busting. And stop," she said, holding the dip bowl out of his reach as he went in for another 'small taste,' "ruining your appetite."

He scoffed. "Think about dead puppies while I'm with two fine ladies, one of them being my wife and the most smokin' hot girl in the world. Like that's gonna happen."

After another fifteen minutes, Sarah arrived, announcing her presence with a knock at the door.

When Damian let her in, Christyn was just finishing up setting the table. "It's good to see you again, Damian," said Sarah, shaking his hand and seeming self-conscious about their little misunderstanding the last time they met. She was dressed conservatively in a chocolate brown sweatervest over a white button down and khakis. Although her sensible outfit probably kept her warm enough on the strikingly breezy April day, it did nothing to camouflage the generous curves of her figure. Damian didn't think there were any clothes in the world that could do that.

"And Christyn, it's been too long!" she said, stepping further into the hotel room. "You know, the other day I swear I got an admission of guilt out of Chef Georges about purposely tampering with your food. If I can get him to say it again and record it this time, you could take him to court and obtain quite the settlement."

"I appreciate you looking out for me, Sarah," said Christyn. "But I didn't invite you over to talk about money. Won't you sit?" She pulled out a chair at the table.

Christyn fixed a round of vodka smashes for everyone and served Damian and Sarah each a plate before assembling her own of everything but the chicken.

Sarah was certainly enjoying her meal. Between seconds and thirds, she said, "Goodness, Christyn, for someone who doesn't eat chicken, you sure know how to cook it. I usually don't even like the white meat."

"You've got to throw the bird in the oven upside down, so the juices from the dark meat drip into the white meat and give it that flavor," said Christyn, as if this was something that was taught in every first-grade classroom.

When dessert was served, Damian finally remembered where he had seen Sarah before. Christyn seemed to have the same realization at the exact same time. 

Back at the restaurant, she had had more restraint, but now, in the privacy of the hotel room, she had no problem moaning into her peach cobbler as if she was approaching orgasm, and he realized he followed her blog. She had a lot of videos posted, most of them focused on mutual gaining, but in a few of them she more solidly took on a feedee or feeder role. He had shown Christyn a couple of videos of activities he wanted her to try, including this one where Sarah was feeding a guy and rewarding him with five strokes to his cock for every bite he swallowed.

So that's why she was always so busy. On top of her job, she was shooting porno.

On his fourth drink now, he smiled broadly and said, "By the way, my wife and I are big fans of your movies."

Sarah flushed, swallowed the bite of ice cream in her mouth, and looked at each of them in turn. "I...take it you're in the community?"

Christyn nodded. "Damian's my feedee. Although, we were talking, and we both agree we find you quite attractive. I know you were interested in him, and we were hoping to invite you to have a little fun with us? Only if you wanted to, of course."

A smile spread across Sarah's face. "Well...where would you two want me to start?"

***

Damian awoke still tingly all over from the alcohol, spent, satisfied, and full from two heaping plates of dinner and two more of the best peach cobbler he'd ever tasted, the second one fed to him gently by Sarah, who sat in his lap while Christyn played with his hair and murmured sweet nothings to both of them. The rest of the night had been a whirlwind of pleasure: Sarah's warm weight on his hips as she rode him in bed, the taste of Christyn in his mouth, wet and slick and hot for him, the sound of them making out while he coaxed them both to their pleasure, Christyn's work-worn hands brushing Sarah's soft ones against the stretched-tight surface of his full belly. True, he'd finished earlier than he had hoped, but all it took was Sarah bouncing on him while he explored her hips and waist with his hands to make him hard again inside her within moments.

He was half-awake when he heard the girls giggling in the shower together, but he was still too blissed-out to move. It wasn't until later in the morning that he willed himself out of bed to clean himself up.

When he came out of the bathroom, dressed in last night's clothes, Christyn and Sarah were side by side in bed together, reading the magazine that had been provided with the room.

"These ads are ridiculous," said Sarah. "Look at this ad for these pills. 'Lose 20 pounds in 20 days'? Even if that were possible, it would be dangerous. And I'm not just saying that because, well, you know."

"That's capitalism for you," said Christyn. "It's easy to get rich when you've brainwashed the public into buying an impossible dream."

"Fuck the diet industry," Sarah agreed. "Fuck industry in general."

"Hear, hear." Christyn rolled up the magazine and chucked it against the opposite wall before rolling over to look at Damian. "Well, hey, sexy. Come here."

He joined them in bed, where they spent the remainder of the morning cuddled up together. He was happily pressed between both of their soft bodies when Christyn suddenly piped up, "You know, Sarah...speaking of capitalism and its crimes against society...I think you'd get along with my roommates. They're of a like mind. If you have nothing to do today, I'd love to introduce you."

Damian should have known Christyn's interest in a threesome was at least somewhat part of a recruitment effort.

Dammit! Why was that hot?


	35. THIRTY-FOUR

**THIRTY-FOUR**

Sarah was shy when she first entered the Server House, Damian and Christyn close at her heels. The others seemed instinctively wary of her. "Do I...do I put off a bad vibe or something?" she asked.

Christyn shrugged. "You do have something of a managerial air about you. Relax your posture a little. Let me get you a beer. Maybe take off your pants."

Sarah gaped incredulously, understandably nervous about going among a bunch of strangers half dressed. But a few drinks later, she was laughing and having a good time with the others, sprawled out on the living room sofa in her panties and undershirt like everyone else in the house while Damian fixed lunch.

When he came out of the kitchen to let everyone know they could help themselves to a bowl of stir-fry, Sarah was exchanging workplace horror stories with a few servers who lived on the second floor.

"...So then the executive banker starts yelling at me, all, 'I specifically asked for grilled shrimp, not blackened, good God, woman, can you even read?' as if I was the one who cooked the food for that meeting, and you know, even if I had been the one to make that mistake, where's it written that just because you work in a fancy office, you get to mistreat other people? Especially the ones who handle your food?"

"You got his name?" asked Recheena, who was sitting nearby. "You know if you have his name, you can find his house."

Sarah took another swill of beer and smirked. "Peter Bianchi. And he drives a powder-blue Cadillac."

Damian would have thought it would be harder to recruit her. The Server House was made up of line-level employees strapped enough for cash that they were willing to sleep twelve to a room if it meant only paying ten bucks a month for rent. Sarah wasn't so down on her luck...then again, Christyn had worked her over in steps, from 'Let's have dinner' to 'Want to have a threesome with me and my kinky husband?' to 'I agree with your opinion on the pervasive use of body shaming in the media' to 'Welcome to my personal hotbed of lawlessness, Godleseness, and shirtlessness. Now let's talk revolution.'

What had she called it again?

Oh yeah. Rule three: the law of approximation.

Lunch was a hit. Damian had left the beef tips on the side for the sake of Christyn and the other vegetarians in the house, but cooked them in the same pan he'd done the noodles and vegetables in so the meat would soak up the sauces and seasonings. "You made this?" asked Sarah, her eyes wide and impressed after she swallowed her first bite. "You're wasted in the front of the house. In fact, if you want, I can recommend you into a cooking position that pays twenty an hour. Chrissy too!"

Christyn was too attached to bartending to consider the offer, but twenty an hour sounded mighty sweet to Damian.

***

Armed with Sarah's letter of recommendation, Damian got a job at 6-Star Catering, the premier catering service in the greater Houston area according to their website, but he had been in the industry long enough to know that every company probably called themselves that. They had him scheduled to work 5:45 AM to 3, Tuesdays thru Fridays, on the eighteenth floor of a downtown high-rise where a law firm called Ellis, Ellis and Rockford had their office. Zeke happened to work there, but, as Damian was working in the kitchen most of the time, he only ran into him once in his first month.

The early hours were a pain at first, but he adjusted quickly, having had to keep to a similar timetable in jail, and he liked getting to cook all morning for a living--and sample the food to his heart's content. "Hey, this is really good," he told his partner on the line one morning after helping himself to a spoonful of the mashed potatoes that were going on the buffet line for the staff appreciation party later on that day. "Good job, bro." His partner gave him a confused look. Shit, that was right. The guy only spoke Spanish. "Um, how do you say 'good'?"

Okay, he was going to have to work on his Spanish. But other than that, he was having a great time.

***

"Well, howdy, stranger! It feels like it's been a hundred million years!"

It was Wednesday. Shortly after Damian got out of work at the law firm, Sarah called him asking if he was available to work a banquet at the bank. He figured it was the least he could do for her, seeing as she had helped him get a full time job. Plus, she had been a valuable resource to the revolution, using her contacts in the industry to keep the Server House informed on who was hiring, who was firing, and who needed to be rattled a bit. So, after a quick stop at the house, he turned up to the bank to report to her. 

"That's what happens when you get a man hired somewhere else. Thanks for that, by the way. I really like it over there. The other cooks even teaching me some Spanish. So far, I'm having a 'callete gordito' day."

"I don't know any Spanish, but that's fantastic! And you're even early!"

"Guess I was excited to see you," said Damian.

Along with Christyn, they'd had some fun a couple more times. Usually the two girls would take turns feeding and fucking him, but sometimes, Sarah wanted to be fed, too. That was the part where Damian fumbled a bit; he didn't have much of a feeder instinct at all, preferring to be on the other end of things. But Christyn was happy to indulge her.

Sarah was right, though, it had been a while.

"Chrissy was home, by the way. She said since you're always so good about keeping me fed, we should return the favor." He set the plastic bag he was holding on the table in the banquet room where they would be setting up the food for the party in about half an hour and pulled out one of Christyn's to-die-for baguette sandwiches with the Vietnamese hot sauce, offering it to Sarah.

"How sweet of her! Love me a good banh mi," said Sarah, unwrapping it from its paper.

"She also said to give you this," said Damian, fishing a note out of his pocket to hand it to her.

All Server House related correspondence was done on paper, in code, and delivered by courier, in case of tapped phones. Damian resented Christyn a little for not teaching him the code. He knew she was just trying to keep him safe, but he didn't think the answer was to keep him out of the loop. He had an idea how this would go, though. He'd get bold and do something reckless that she didn't want him to do, something would go sideways, she'd be upset, they'd have a silent stand-off, they'd pine for each other, one of them would apologize first, then the other would, and then they'd come out stronger.

It was just torture, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sarah read the note, shredded it, and stuffed the pieces in her pocket for later disposal.

"She free tonight, too," said Damian, unwrapping his own sandwich. "If you want, maybe we can all get together?" Even if he did know he was in the calm before a storm, he still had wants and needs.

"I could be persuaded. Listen, though, Damian...I don't think the poly thing is for me, in the long run," she confessed. "I like you both, I really do, but I can't help feeling like a third wheel. It's hard to find someone local who's, you know, into the lifestyle, and maybe that's why I jumped straight into bed with you guys, but down the line I really hope I can find someone to call mine."

"That's a mood. But hey, there's hope." At first he thought of Lacie, but regrettably, he didn't have her number. There was someone else, though. "I do know a guy. Total feeder. Only problem is, he a bit rough around the edges, and he might, uh, be too skinny for your liking."

"Oh, I'm more or less bi-sizual, if that's a word."

"Great! I can give you his number. He'll love you. And he's a great cook!"

This might have been a mistake.

Sarah and Weezy hit it off immediately, which was great for them, but it also meant Damian had to put up with Sarah raving every shift they worked together. Before long, she couldn't go thirty minutes without saying 'Luis is so wonderful,' or gushing about how pampered he made her feel, or talking about his cute little ass, which was weird to hear from a third party about someone who had sucked your dick. Then again, Damian had heard crazier.

Christyn had said it before and after all these years, he felt it: the world had gone insane.

At least once a week, a small party from the Server House went to go blow something up that needed blowing up.

A new diet supplement had just hit the market with FDA approval despite the fact that it almost certainly caused blindness.

The other week it had made national news that one of the world's largest online retailers had been covering up the exhaustion-related, on-the-clock deaths of fifteen of its workers at a warehouse in Georgia.

Two people finding love was ultimately a cause for celebration in these trying times.

***

Zeke and Beans had a small but beautiful wedding at a church. They had anticipated rain, which was why they had opted to have the ceremony indoors. They decided on only two bridesmaids: Sabine's best friend from high school, Carmen Aguirre, and Zeke's younger sister Hope.

It was a little weird for Damian, seeing Hope again, with L'vonte as her plus one as he cradled her baby, who looked a little too much like Weezy. It was always a smaller city than you thought.

After the vows were said, Damian and Hope caught up. He learned she had spent some time in the Server House before finding her own place and that she knew of feedism thanks to Auralee, but the idea made her uncomfortable. "Them feedees, or whatever, can do whatever they want, power to them, but I don't want no strangers looking at me thinking bout fattening me up, you know?"

He thought that was reasonable and decided against telling her about his involvement in the kink. Maybe she'd assume his weight gain was due to stress. He had spent a hot minute in jail, after all.

Christyn caught the bouquet, but Auralee snatched it out of her hands. "You're already married!" she snapped, smacking her over the head with it.

As the rain cleared, Damian stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. Christyn soon joined him, lighting one of her own. "What's on your mind? You look sad."

"I'm not."

"Okay, good!" she said. "I was talking to Sabine's friend, Carmen. She's nice. Also, I like Carmen for a baby name."

Damian looked at her, startled. The smoke swirled around her and she smiled. "I know, I know, I don't seem like the type. In fact, I never thought I would want to be a mother before I met you. The world is so awful...but lately, I've been thinking. The only way to fix the world is to raise good people. And you and I, we could bring up some kind, well-rounded people."

"Ain't you the expert in making people well-rounded."

"Damian!" She smacked him in the chest. "Don't be a pervert while I'm talking about our future children! Unless...unless you don't see children in your future."

Much to the contrary, he had always hoped that one day he could be a dad, and give his kids all the love he'd missed as a child. And if he had to pick a mother for his children, of course it would be Christyn. It was just…

"I didn't think you wanted kids. You didn't even want a wedding."

He had to admit he was envious, seeing Zeke and Sabine declare their union in front of Zeke's family and a handful of Sabine's friends.

"Oh, baby...is that what you think?" asked Christyn. "I always wanted a ceremony. I was just...well…"

"What?"

"I was waiting for you to hit your goal weight," she said. "No sense in getting you fitted for a tux twice."

His cheeks heated and a giddy smile spread across his face. "I already hit it."

"Really?"

For a while now, he had been relaxed about the gaining thing. He already knew his metabolism was broken, and now that he was working back of the house, the pounds piled on without him even trying. It was no surprise that he'd surpassed his original goal.

The 42's he'd picked up a while ago used to have some room, but now they fit perfect.

He slung an arm around Christyn's shoulders and whispered into her ear, "237."

She practically jumped him, clinging around his waist with all of her force. "No wonder you're so nice and soft lately!" She squeezed him a little tighter and he felt his skin tingle all over.

***

The reception was held at Pasture--Auralee's new barback had a second job waitressing there, and had talked to management about hooking some friends up with a good deal. As the wedding party arrived, Sabine having changed into a more understated dress, a hostess led them to a spacious private dining room in the back. Soon, a team of two servers came to take drink orders for the 20-top table.

Christyn had offered to be designated driver so that Damian could indulge in as many drinks as he wanted, but he'd said he was okay with driving--"I know you like alcohol, and me, I'm really more interested in the food." So, while he contented himself with his old favorite of sweet tea with creamer, she ordered an old fashioned, but she didn't like it as much as the ones Damian fixed her at home. She politely finished it, but the next time Elliot (or at least, she thought that's what the waiter had said his name was) came to check on them, she ordered a Manhattan.

After the first few rounds of drinks, pre-ordered appetizers were set, and she encouraged Damian to take generous samples of lobster egg rolls, spinach dip, prosciutto with crostini, bacon wrapped shrimp...anything appealing to him that the spread had to offer. She watched him all the while, taking in his various pleased expressions with delight, loving to see him so satisfied and spoiled by his dining experience. She looked forward, too, to the impact the luxurious meal would have on his waistline--the food might've been organic and health-conscious, but that did not mean it was all low calorie, and Zeke and Beans seemed to have sprung for the most festive--and most decadent--options from the menu.

Eventually, the servers returned to take the party's entree orders from a limited menu. Christyn was pleased to find one of the options to be the shrimp pasta she'd never gotten to try after she'd technically assaulted her date and stormed out of the restaurant, so she ordered that, and as for her husband, who had given her his menu and told her to order for him…

"What's the most fattening option?" she asked with a smirk. (She had downed two more cocktails by then, and her exhibitionist side had come out to play. He was so, so close to 240, and if he was willing to go a little further, she would love to see his gorgeously plump body hit its next milestone...)

Damian blushed scarlet and rose to at least half mast in his dress pants.

"That'd be the chicken and andoullie risotto, no contest!" said Elliot's banquet partner, whose name Christyn hadn't caught. Her tone was bright and enthusiastic, as if she hadn't just been asked the most bizarre menu question imaginable. She looked up from her pad and pen at each of them in turn. "Wait. Damian? Christyn?"

Christyn gave a self-conscious half-laugh. "Cashier from Cafe Alexis whose name I never learned."

"Lacie!" Damian grinned once he recognized her. She was more muscular now, more angular, and she'd cut her hair into a short pixie cut which she had spiked with gel. "Neat, you work here now?"

"Here and Memorial Lanes. Auralee, the bar manager, is teaching me loads, and not just about barbacking."

This must be the new feeder girl Auralee and Sabine had mentioned a few times. The realization dawned then on Christyn: "You two…?"

"Briefly. I had to back off, though," explained Lacie. "I couldn't be with him in good conscience, knowing deep down he loved you. I knew you would come around. And look how well you've taken care of him!"

Christyn's heart swelled with joy. "I try my best," she said, leaning into him with her head on his shoulder, resting a hand on his plush upper arm.

She enjoyed her meal, but not quite as much as Damian enjoyed his, along with her leftovers when she couldn't finish. "That's it, darling, eat it all for me," she coaxed him through the last few bites in low tones the rest of the now-debauched crowd couldn't hear. "You're always so needy when you're stuffed, and I want you needy. I'm going to take you to the hotel after this, so I can strip your clothes off and drag you in front of the mirror and you can watch yourself jiggle all over while I play with you. And then, when you can't even take it anymore, I'll throw you on the bed and fuck you until you scream."

"Fuck, Chrissy, Sabine gon' kill me if I nut my pants at her wedding reception!"

Dessert came then, and he could only take a few bites of chocolate lava cake before he succumbed to satisfaction, leaning into her while she wrapped an arm around him and rubbed his shoulder.

On their way out, she bumped into the back of a man's barstool. "Oops! Sorry!" Maybe four cocktails wasn't such a bright idea on her part. Damian took her around the waist and helped steady her as her head swam with drunken floatiness. The man at the bar turned around.

"It's no problem at all--oh. Um. Hi Chris."

She should have expected to run into Paul. He was, after all, a regular here.

What's more, he was fat again, which took her by surprise. "You look well," she said, a little guarded. "Paul, this is my husband, Damian. Damian, this is Paul, my...um…" Did he count as an ex if they had only been on one date?

"The salad guy, right?" Damian finished for her, stifling laughter.

Paul winced. "That night wasn't one of my brightest moments."

"Well, you were punished for it," said Christyn. "Thanks, by the way, for not pressing charges."

"I was being a douche. Anyway, those pants haven't fit in a while, so it's not a big deal about the salad dressing stains." She hadn't wanted to bring up his weight at all, but it was something he seemed to feel the need to talk about. "These past few years, I've done a lot of work on myself and I've learned not to be judgmental of others' bodies, as well as accepting of my own. Of course, a big part of that was Meghan and Maia…"

"Therapists?" Christyn guessed.

"No, actually, they're, uh...they're my feeders," said Paul, "if that term means anything to you."

"Damn, how many of us are there in this city?" said Christyn.

Then, from Damian: "Bro, how come you get two?"

When they got to the hotel, Christyn had mostly sobered up, but she was sleepy. She'd been all big talk at the restaurant, but she would have to lay down for a minute before getting up to anything too kinky. She collapsed on the bed without unmaking it, and when Damian joined her, she curled up between his thighs with her head resting on his belly. "Is this okay?" she asked, not wanting to cause him any discomfort if he was still too full.

"Yeah, had time to digest on the way back," he said, gently playing with her hair. She lost track of how long she lay like that on him, until she felt something being propped against the top of her head.

"Damian, what is that?"

He startled beneath her. "Shit, Chrissy, I thought you was asleep!"

"What is that? On my head?"

"Um...someone left a book in here. Looked interesting."

"Do you always use me as a book rest when I'm asleep?"

"You use me as a pillow, so I think it's fair."

She was too comfortable to protest, or move, so she let him finish reading the first chapter. When he set the book aside, she scooted closer and kissed him softly.

They made sweet, gentle love in the missionary position, then showered, then went to bed, and when he rolled over to wrap an arm around her and told her he loved her, she said it back without hesitation.

***

"Alright, Ruth, you're on for catering. Anyway, I gotta let you go, we're pulling up at the shop here…"

It was Damian and Auralee in her car as he got off the phone, making a gesture with his hand to signify that Ruth Lambert had been talking his ear off for the last thirty minutes as she said her last thank-yous and goodbyes. His and Christyn's wedding was well into planning, and everyone at the Server House wanted in on it. As Christyn was busier out of the two, he had volunteered to interview people to cook, make drinks, and decorate for the event.

"Oh, cut her some slack, she's lonely," said Auralee as they got out of the car. "You know she's a virgin?"

Damian shrugged. He didn't need to know about the sex lives of his roommates. Then again, if Ruth didn't want her business spread around, she shouldn't have shared with the biggest gossip in the house. "Yeah," Auralee went on. "It sounded like her one and only relationship was really passionate. The guy was into feeding her, too, and she liked it. She's come to me for advice a few times on the subject. Unfortunately, that schmuck ghosted her."

"Poor thing," said Damian.

Maybe she should have let the fucker beat her at video games for once.

They stepped into the store, which was an upscale menswear place where Damian was to get fitted for his wedding tuxedo. He wished he could have gone with Christyn, but between the hotel, the agency, and a handful of private gigs she'd started picking up from regulars she met at her jobs, along with some revolutionary thing she wasn't telling him about, she was booked solid, and besides, Auralee had a lot of experience in helping 'men of his girth or larger' shop for formal wear.

Once he took a look around inside, a realization struck him. Every man he saw perusing the racks and shelves was bigger than he was by a considerable margin. "You took me to the fat guy store," he murmured, cracking a grin at the fact that he even qualified to be here.

"I sure did! Aren't you excited?"

She took him to the back, where a short, rotund white guy took his measurements, had him try on several pieces, and asked him a million questions: was this okay, did that pinch too tight, did he prefer to wear his pants at the natural waist, or underneath his belly?

"Underneath, I think," said Auralee, and Damian went ahead and trusted her. He knew she and Christyn talked.

"You're the future wife, I presume?" asked the tailor, and Damian was about to introduce Auralee as his friend or perhaps even his sister. Sometimes it felt that way between them. But then she had to ruin the moment as only she knew how to do.

"Ha! Let him put on another 200 and then, then maybe we'll talk."

Damian choked on his own spit and the tailor fumbled so badly with the pins he was holding that he stabbed himself several times in the palm at once.

He grabbed dinner with Auralee at a restaurant in the same strip mall and later, much later, they linked up with Alex at the Sapphire Lounge for some drinks. Zeke came in some time after that, said his hellos, and ordered a beer, but wouldn't stop glancing at his phone. This was normal as of late. It meant someone in the Server House was out doing something illegal, and he was on call in case they got arrested.

Thirty minutes before close, when Damian was four beers in and feeling happily buzzed, just about half the Server House flooded into the bar, at least forty people. "Hey, baby! Aura said y'all would be here." Christyn hugged him where he sat on his barstool. She smelled like sweat and smoke, but not from cigarettes.

"Where you just come from?" he asked her.

"I...well I...you see…"

Sabine, who was closeby, gave her a sharp, he-deserves-to-know glare and said, "We were downtown, standing with the families of the Savannah warehouse workers."

He had known, of course, about the protest that day in several major US cities calling for the criminal investigation of the company that killed all those workers. Christyn had told him not to go, which he'd been happy to go along with, but that was before he knew he had been singled out specifically, and that literally everyone else was going.

He flagged down the bartender. "Double vodka, please."

It wasn't lost on Christyn that he was upset. She knew he hated vodka. "Damian…" She reached for his hand, but he jerked it away.

"Why wouldn't you tell me you were going?"

"I wanted you to be safe."

"Goddammit, Christyn! What's the point of keeping me safe if you won't let me live? Do you think I'm too stupid to come with you whenever you do these things? Or too weak?" He may not have been smart, that much he knew. But fuck it! He still believed in things.

"Damian, no! I don't think you're weak. I...I think I am."

"What does that even mean?"

Her and her weird logic sometimes.

A couple more doubles of absolute paint-thinner quality vodka later, he stormed out to the patio, where he sat on a bench, lit up a cigarette, and brooded. He hadn't wanted to blow up in front everyone from the Server House, but he was incensed by Christyn's latest act of exclusion.

"Hey, man." It was Zeke who came up behind him. "Look, I get it. I really do. Sometimes you gotta stick to the sidelines, though."

That's when Damian snapped once again. Standing up, he whipped around to face Zeke. "That's easy for you to say! You're a lawyer! They need you on standby in case somebody gets arrested! And what am I, huh? I'm just Chrissy's poster boy for fat liberation as a springboard to socialist revolution! Which is fine, but it's not all I want to do! How can she not get it?"

"Look, man, all she said was, stay out of it. She didn't say no 'stay out of it or else.' You could've gone if you wanted. She'd been worried off her shit, but it's not like she woulda hurt you. The cops mighta, though. Sides...

"You didn't see her when you were in jail," said Zeke, calm as ever. "Our girl was a wreck. She barely ate...she never smiled...it was like her soul left her body. You want to help her with the cause? Don't make her lose you again. Besides, I know you don't want to go back to jail. I sure don't."

Damian blinked. "You went to jail?"

Zeke, with his pressed suit and tie and 4.0 GPA, who never did anything more deviant than fuck a lot of girls or leave raw fries under the three compartment sink?

"It was another protest, back in 2014." Damian didn't remember what had gone down in 2014. He'd lived with Lily then, and she rarely remembered to pay the cable bill. But he didn't want to ask and make himself look like an idiot, so he let Zeke continue. "It was peaceful, until Houston's finest showed up and started throwing flash grenades at us. This one lands right between my feet. So I, uh...I pulled the pin outta that ho and threw it back."

Damian laughed. "Knew there was a reason I liked you."

"Ain't no laughing matter, kid. Things coulda ended up real bad for me. But my public defender actually gave a shit, and got me off in the end. That's when I decided to go into criminal defense.

"Now, look. As your friend, I'm gonna tell you, you are allowed to say no to Chrissy if you want. She already knows. Trust me. But as her friend...be careful with that girl's heart, okay?"

Damian had mixed feelings as he and Zeke walked back into the bar together. He was calmer now, but still a little irritated...then he saw Christyn, trying to give her soldiers attention as they all fought for it, but misty-eyed and looking around the room to see where he'd gone, and her pain became his own. He approached her and held her tightly.

"You're not mad at me anymore?" she asked softly.

"Just glad you're here. Sides, Sarah got a boyfriend now, so I'm all out of backup plans." She kneed him in the leg, but it was playful, and anyway, he was too drunk to feel it.

"Seriously though, Damian, I'm sorry. I should have given you a choice."

"I always had a choice. I'm not your slave," he pointed out. "Just a bit of a sucker for you is all."

It wouldn't be so bad, he decided, being the safe, responsible one of the two, at least until she learned to believe in herself more. One day she'd know that as long as she was fine, he would be, too. No matter what kind of trouble he got himself into, he had no doubt she would save him sooner or later.


	36. THIRTY-FIVE

**THIRTY-FIVE**

A strange thing happened on Christyn's way home from the retirement facility one afternoon.

She was stopping at the Lebanese bakery: Damian had really enjoyed baklava the first time, and even if she had recently narrowly escaped having to beg his forgiveness--she didn't know what Zeke had said to him, but it had worked--she thought she might get him a treat anyway for no other reason than she loved him.

The robust, dark-haired woman in line ahead of her was placing an impressive order for a large box of ma’amul and three dozen znoud el-sit, plus more cheese qatayif than Christyn thought she would be able to carry. Or maybe she would manage it: she had to be used to carrying a lot of weight already. She was easily as wide as two of Christyn, and Christyn wasn't skinny, having made a full recovery from her long depressive stint.

The woman turned around to face her and said with a broad smile, "Sorry about the wait. My man gave me a large sum of money and instructed that I spend every cent on sweets for myself. He likes to keep me soft and cuddly."

"It's no trouble." Christyn wasn't fazed by the woman's admission to a total stranger about being in a feedist relationship that also seemed to have a splash of financial domination. Maybe telling people about it was part of their kink. She could relate. "It gives me more time to decide what I want. I was just gonna get some baklava, but maybe I'll get some of those cheese things, too." Auralee would love those.

"You should get whatever you want!" said the woman. "You deserve a nice fattening treat. Fat women are so much more superior to thin women. My man taught me that."

Christyn shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She was in that in-between zone and wasn't sure if she was being fat-praised or thin-shamed. Not that she cared too much. She liked her body. And Damian loved it. What else mattered?

"Oh, I'm actually here for my husband. He's more of the feedee in our relationship, if that means anything to you."

"Isn't that a little reversed?"

"Isn't that a little gender-conformist?" Christyn knew most of the feeders online were men, but she chalked that up to the fact that women were conditioned to be less sexually assertive and feedees were stereotyped to be submissive.

"You always struck me as a tough one to tame, Christyn."

What?

Christyn racked her brain, trying to figure out how she knew this woman. Just then, the cashier finished packing her sweets and rung her up. She paid, took her two hefty sacks of purchases, and said, "Until we meet again!"

Just as the woman reached the exit, Christyn remembered where she'd seen her. Bella Alba was a good deal heavier than she had been when Christyn saw her at Stella's apartment, but her features were still recognizable if she looked hard enough. So, Bella was a practicing feedee now? Good for her. "Hey Bella, do you still work at the nail shop on Hammerly?" she asked, but Bella didn't turn around or answer her, just walked out the door.

***

It wasn't uncommon these days for Christyn and Damian to both be awake before the crack of dawn; they both had jobs that demanded long commutes and early shifts. She was assembling her stuff in the kitchen--cocktail shaker, bar spoon, ice tray, spill mats, freshly printed menus--when he came downstairs, groggy but fully dressed for his kitchen shift. "Whoa, what's all this stuff?"

"I'm working a wedding in Spring today. I have to be there by ten, and Lizaveta doesn't get great highway speeds. Check it out." She handed him one of her cocktail menus. She had never actually met the client, Felicity Ogden, face to face, but her email had said that she'd heard a load about Christyn's talent for inventing cocktails from a friend who used to be her bar regular at the Capital. "The bride asked me to come up with all these signature cocktails for the reception, and I'm thinking of using some of them for ours."

"Mmm, whiskey and Irish Cream with whole cream, soda, homemade blueberry syrup, and egg white foam...sounds delicious!"

"Ah, shit." Felicity had asked her to strike that one. Said it was too fattening. "Now I need to reprint every single one of these."

While she was making her last-minute preparations, Damian rushed out the door for work. She would have hoped for a kiss goodbye, but he was about to be late. So was she, to be honest.

Funny, how missing one person could make her feel so wanting even after only a minute, even in a house full of almost a hundred servers and cooks.

The drive to Spring was long and uneventful. She kept the windows down and the radio blasting the rock mix station, which she distinctly remembered was the same station Jesse played in his car. She had thought about changing it, but decided not to what now seemed like long ago. She didn't have many reliable memories of her time with Jesse; she was sure he had warped her experiences with his gaslighting, but she was also sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that this had been her radio station since long before she met him. He had probably changed the station in his car to match hers after hearing her playing it in order to trick her into trusting him.

And he had already taken so much from her. According to Auralee, she started seeing him shortly after her twenty-second birthday, so that was, what, around two and a half years of her life?

Damned if she was going to let him take her radio station, too.

When she arrived at the wedding venue, she was met by one of the bridesmaids, a brunette in a green dress who looked distressed. "You must be the bartender! Great, we have an emergency. The waitress never showed up, and Felicity needs you to serve at cocktail hour before the ceremony."

Christyn was barely even out of her car yet. "Yikes. Then when am I supposed to set up the bar?"

"Right after cocktail hour. I know, it'll be tight for time."

No kidding. It meant Christyn would have to work straight through without a break. "Ms. Ogden didn't tell me anything about having to serve in addition to bartending--"

"I know, I know, trust me, I'm stressed too. But at least she's paying you. All I got was this lousy dress. Oh, by the way, she says she'll increase your wage to $30 an hour while you're waitressing, if that helps."

On the one hand, no lunch break.

On the other hand, more money.

She accompanied the bridesmaid up to the kitchens and got started loading trays with passed appetizers and flutes of champagne.

The shift wore on hour by hour, long and monotonous. There were a few other staff members, but so many guests to serve between them all that she never got a word in with them edgewise. While the ceremony was going on, she set up the bar, and almost the moment she was done, she was slammed with people coming up for drinks. She barely had a moment to breathe, the crowd was so thick, and so eager to get their buzz.

Eventually, the reception dinner started to wind down. As she was beginning to clean up, she saw the groom having a conversation with his new wife. He seemed to ask her permission for something before he walked up to Christyn's counter and stuffed a $20 into her overflowing tip jar. "Excuse me, Miss," he said, his tone polite almost to the point of meekness, "but before you break down, may I have a vodka soda, and one of your bell pepper mojitos for Felicity? She loves that one."

"You don't want a fancy drink, too?" she asked as she began to muddle mint and limes for the bride's cocktail.

"Watching my sugar. I want to look good for the new Mrs., you know?"

She appraised him briefly. He wasn't bad looking. Especially a little disheveled with his hair windswept from dancing, jacket cast off and his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. Christyn, however, preferred her expensive menswear filled out with a little more man these days than the groom's thin frame had to offer.

His covetous gaze at the glass as she strained the fruity drink over ice didn't escape her notice. "You want to, or she wants you to?" Ordinarily she wouldn't be so blunt, but she was exhausted after working all day and was losing her filter.

He flushed. "Well, she did give me a list of what I should order...but I'm inclined to agree with her in all things."

"Surely not all things…?"

"I might not always like it, but Felicity knows what's best for me."

Christyn wanted to gag. She couldn't imagine how anyone could be happily involved with such a sycophant. Even Damian knew when to push back when Christyn got too wrapped up in one of her overprotective moods.

Then again, someone like Jesse Markham would enjoy being unconditionally acquiesced to, but he wasn't so much in the market for a partner as for a subject over which he could rule like a vengeful God.

As he continued to gaze at the sweet mojito, Christyn felt a pang of sympathy. As she prepared his vodka soda, she snuck in a splash of lemon juice and a generous squirt of simple syrup. When he reached across the bar for the drinks, she noticed a thin leather band secured tightly around his wrist on the same side as his wedding ring, held in place with a silver buckle, but thought nothing of it at the time.

"There you are!" Felicity escaped the crowd to join her husband at the bar, holding an empty plate. "What's that, honey?" She looked at Christyn and asked her, "What did he order?"

Christyn wasn't sure who she felt sorrier for.

"A vodka soda. I spiked it with a little lemon juice. It's good for the metabolism."

"Yes, yes, I read that!" said Felicity, nodding with approval and prying no further. "Anyway, why don't you get yourself some dinner from the buffet before they break it down?" She handed Christyn the plate.

Christyn was, of course, starving, having not eaten since breakfast at the house. She took the plate, not even bothering to wipe it down even though it was still damp from the dishwasher, walked over to the buffet, and loaded it up with shrimp and cocktail sauce and some sort of kale and couscous salad. She wished there was something a little denser on the spread, but this would have to do. She returned to the bar with her meal, intending to finish cleaning up once she was done eating, but she hadn't even gotten halfway through her meal before collapsing, ass-over-tits, on her back behind the counter.

***

Damian returned from work to find the whole Server House gathered on the ground floor, making phone calls.

"What are we doing tonight?" he asked Recheena as she hung up the phone while she passed him in the hall.

"There's a restaurant that been making their servers work twelvers with no break," she explained. "Someone posted about it in the server group I'm in online. So now, we all calling the place, puttin' in to-go orders we ain't never gonna come pick up or pay for. They want to do our people dirty? We'll waste their time and their money." So, a typical night in, then. "You down?"

"Bet!" He was a little iffy about the food waste--there were starving homeless people who would love to have whatever the restaurant was forced to discard thanks to this mass call-in--but it wasn't like the restaurant was going to donate its unused backstock to a good cause anyway. And with so much unclaimed to-go food sitting on the line, hopefully the servers would be able to snatch some of it on their way out for the night.

She pulled up the menu on her phone and he looked through it. Damn! Bacon wrapped meatloaf with garlic mash and creamed spinach...shrimp and lobster egg rolls...snapper over asparagus and coconut ginger rice topped with mango pineapple pico and lemon butter sauce…

"If this wasn't a evil soul sucking company that we're not tryna give money to I might actually order from here," he said.

"Feel that. Too bad the restaurant in Michigan."

He called in and ordered a good quarter of the menu, left a fake name for the ticket, and then repeated the process online through the restaurant's website. It was too bad they would be closed by the time Christyn returned from work. She loved pissing off shitty restaurant owners. He thought about texting her the details in case she got a chance to call in over her break, but he didn't know how strict her client would be about phone use. He would have to settle for telling her all about it in the morning.

Only, she wasn't back by morning.

***

Christyn awoke on a cold tile floor.

She didn't remember leaving the wedding and suspected she hadn't; at least, not on her own two feet. Painstakingly, she staggered upright. Her mouth was dry and her head throbbed from dehydration. It was light outside, she could tell from the small window, but she didn't know how long she had been out for.

She was in some kind of...actually, she couldn't tell what kind of room it was. There were cupboards and a counter, along with a microwave and a sink, but no fridge and no stove. Thinking quickly, she threw open every cabinet and drawer. They were full of kitchen supplies--mostly Ziploc bags and rolls of plastic and foil--but she did manage to find a knife. She wrapped the blade up in paper towels from a roll that was sitting on the counter and slipped it down her shirt.

There was also a phone on the wall. She tried the door first, of course, but when that was locked, she took the receiver off the hook and dialed the most reliable help-line she knew.

"Auralee speaking."

"Aura! Aura, listen, it's Christyn. There's an excellent reason why I haven't come home, and I don't know where I am right now...I'm in a locked room…oh god, Aura, please do something--"

"Hang on, I'll call the cops on the other line and connect you--"

"AURA, NO!"

Even if Auralee had the world at her fingertips--or maybe because she did--she could be so naive sometimes.

"For all we know, it's the cops that fucking abducted me!"

"What would the cops want with you now?"

"Auralee, I am the leader of a militant grassroots workers' rights organization!" Christyn snapped. "I know we've been careful, but who knows what they already know? Don't you have people you can call? Private security?"

"I can try and contract some guys, but first I need to figure out where you are. Stay on the line, I have my dad's old police call-tracing software on my computer."

That was when Christyn noticed a faint odor filling the air, along with a thin, swirling smoke. She whipped around to see it was coming from a vent by the ceiling. She began to feel drowsy. "I don't know how long I can do that."

"Just stay with me, Chrissy."

Christyn left the phone off the hook, dangling by its cord, as she flew to the window and pounded on it so hard with the butt of her fist that it broke. But there was no way she was squeezing through that thing. The hole she'd punched in it was letting the gas out, but not fast enough.

She tried to hold her breath. She actually lasted a good solid while. But eventually, she succumbed.

***

Damian arrived home from work to find Auralee scrambling to her room, looking frantic. For being stumbling drunk, she sure moved with a sense of urgency. Curious, he followed her, standing in the doorway as she shoved a few roommates out of the way to pull her laptop out from under her bottom-bunk.

"Where's the fire?"

Auralee connected her phone to her computer and opened up something that looked like location-tracking software, but said nothing. For several minutes, he watched her while she worked, manicured fingers typing rapidly and then backspacing over drunken mistakes. Then, she swore under her breath. "I lost the signal, she must have hung up. Or somebody did."

"Whatcha doin'?" Damian asked.

Auralee stood up and led him into an empty room. Closing the door behind her, she said, "Don't panic, and don't tell the rest of the Server House. I'm not trying to incite hysteria here. But Chrissy got herself kidnapped."

***

Christyn faded in and out. She felt like she was perpetually falling, then passing out again, then barely coming to but too weak to stand, and yet, somehow lifted, manipulated, before she was falling again. She had no clear notion of the passage of time--no clear notion of anything, really, except for at one point, when a hauntingly familiar voice drawled into her ear, "Did you miss me, kitten?"

When she awoke fully, she was sitting in a steel chair. It was meant to have cushions on the backrest and the seat, but those were missing, subjecting her to the cold, hard bars of the frame. Her pants, socks, and shoes had been removed, but her shirt was still on her, and the hilt of the knife was untouched between the bottoms of her breasts.

As for how she hadn't fallen off the chair in her sleep, she was secured to the armrests tightly by the wrists and forearms, all the way up to the elbow, with rough rope that threatened to scrape her skin if she so much as squirmed.

She should have known this had something to do with Jesse Markham. He must be the friend of the bride who had given her a referral. Come to think of it, Felicity had come across as the controlling type. That wristband the groom had worn, was that his slave collar? Felicity and Jesse had probably bonded over the fact that they were both powermad abuse enthusiasts using BDSM as an excuse to be as heinous as they pleased.

And that dinner plate she had thought was simply wet from the dishwasher: she'd bet anything now that it had actually been coated with a strong sedative.

The chair was wide-set--she wondered if Jesse planned to put her through some force-feeding regimen. Maybe after fattening up Estrella, he'd fallen down the rabbit hole and gotten addicted.

For some reason, she found herself more or less neutral to the idea. Better to be fed than starved, she thought. She also felt dazed and oddly euphoric.

That was when she noticed the IV stuck in her left arm, connected to a bag on a stand. She struggled, or at least, made an attempt to, but the chair was heavy and her limbs were leaden.

The room was plain and windowless, lit only by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. The door, she realized, must be obscured in the shadowed extremities of the space.

Before too long, out of those shadows stepped Estrella.

"My God, you've gotten fat," Christyn blurted, somehow bold despite her own compromising partial nudity. She didn't know why. "I didn't even recognize you at the Lebanese bakery."

Was she trying to get a rise out of Estrella? Or test the waters to see just what Jesse had done to her mind? It was anyone's guess.

"I know!" beamed Estrella. "Master is so good to me. He feeds me lots and makes sure I'm never hungry. Maybe if you're good, and you submit, Master will be just as good to you."

Think, Christyn, think!

Okay. Obviously, she was tied to a chair and she had been drugged. She was powerless against Jesse. Estrella, on the other hand, was free to move about as she pleased. At least, Christyn deduced as much, if she was allowed to come down and see her alone like this.

If she could get into her head, perhaps sway her loyalty…

She should have thought of this plan the moment Estrella entered the room, but she was just so tired, and disoriented, and stupidly happy…

"Why did you come here?"

"I wanted to see what Master saw in you. You're said to be witty, but I don't see it. And you've got a pretty face, but you're pitifully skinny."

"Listen to yourself, Estrella," she said. She heard herself slurring, but couldn't help it. "This isn't you. Back when we were friends, you would never shut up about your diet. On your own free will, you starved yourself until your airbag failed to deploy!"

"I know. Master saved me from such self-destructive behaviors."

"You used to give me flack for ordering extra salad dressing. Remember, Estrella? You thought I was fat. You thought I was disgusting! And now, look what Jesse Markham has done to you!"

"M-maybe deep down it was because I was jealous!" Estrella retorted. "Maybe I wanted to be the fat friend instead, so I tried to make you lose weight."

"Careful, honey, your cognitive dissonance is showing."

"Shut up!' Estrella screeched. "Shut up, shut up, shut up! Master has enhanced me. He's turned me into the perfect slave--a chance you squandered when you ran off with that idiot barback!"

"You mean the one you were obsessed with?"

Something in Estrella's expression shifted.

Relief washed over Christyn. She had found an in. "Don't you remember?" She let her voice drop low and slow, using the same tones she'd once used to lure Damian out from behind the driver's seat of his car. "You loved him. You loved him so much you held a gun to my head! Jesse told you he would help you win him back, and then he betrayed you. Oh, but that obsession is still inside you somewhere, isn't it? Burning, small but inextinguishable, like a pilot light. Imagine that light burning brighter and brighter…"

"Wh-what are you doing to me?"

"Hotter and hotter, brighter and brighter. Oh, you can feel it, can't you?" She raised her pitch, letting her voice sensually pick up speed. "Burning brighter and brighter! Hotter and hotter! Until you can feel that old familiar spark consuming your whole heart!"

Estrella had gone quiet.

"I'm going to count backwards now from three, and snap my fingers," said Christyn, "and when I do, you're going to say his name. Three...two...one."

SNAP!

"Damian…"

As his name fell from her lips, wet pools of sadness settled into her eyes.

"If you have any doubt that what I'm saying is true," said Christyn, feeling like she'd gotten through, "then go back to your Master. But if not, I have a knife down my shirt. Take it off me and do what you will."

Estrella took four shaky steps forward and reached down Christyn's shirt, gripping the knife's hilt. Maybe she would stab Jesse in the back with it.

Or maybe she would take one look at herself in the mirror and slit her wrists.

Either way, it was a win.

***

Christyn wasn't sure how long she had been tied up, but eventually, the bag ran dry.

The man that came in to replace it was barely recognizable as Jesse Markham. The too-blue eyes were the same, but different--they looked sunken in their sockets against his cheekbones.

Jesus. He had cheekbones now.

His hairline had receded a little further, his hair graying slightly, and he had lost a lot of weight. He was broad in the shoulder enough that his newly narrow waist made him look disproportionate. Dehydrated. He was wearing skinny jeans and a thin wifebeater. Christyn snickered at the sight of him. Ugly shirt, uglier name. 

She thought to herself with satisfaction that Damian could've easily snapped him in half.

"Good morning, my adorable slave-kitten."

Of course, Christyn had no way of knowing whether it was morning, or evening, or sometime in between, or outside of that timeframe entirely. His words might have disturbed her more if he had given her a window and managed to convince her that it was morning, despite a view of a starry night outside. As it was, she found it hard to worry about anything. She still felt so floaty and dreamy, and bold, and something like invincible. Had she not, after all, figured out his tricks? She could now induce a trance as well as he could, maybe better.

Maybe if she could just find a way into his mind…

"The correct response, kitten, is 'Good morning, Master,'" said Jesse. Christyn laughed in his face and spat on the floor. He narrowed his eyes. "My my, how uncouth. But I suppose that's to be expected. I trust by now you've figured out what's in the bag?"

He switched the empty IV bag out for the new one he had in his hands.

"Ethanol," she slurred. When he didn't contradict her, she knew she had guessed correctly. It wasn't so bad. At least she got to be drunk while he held her captive in this state of indecency.

"You always were a smart, smart girl!" Jesse praised her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She didn't quite have enough wits about her to recoil like she wanted to. "But you've always had a bad habit of being attracted to things that are bad for you. First, the bottle, then, Ms. Kingston, and finally, that lowlife Mexican."

"A brute, an abuser, and a racist. Well, aren't you quite the prize?"

SMACK!

The back of his hand connected with her face, but she barely felt the blow. Either he was much, much weaker than she had ever known him, or she was plastered.

"Careful, kitten. Your sharp tongue makes my hand itch. But you won't be using it for much longer." He gave the IV bag a careful flick. "You see, in a few weeks, you'll be quite brain-damaged. You won't be able to make any of the bad decisions you're so wont to make anymore. Instead, your Master will make them for you. You'll withdraw, of course, once I take you off the ethanol, but you won't be able to reach for the bottle. In fact, you won't even know what it is. You won't even remember your own name. But no matter; I'll give you a new one. I'm feeling Fluffy. You'll be right as rain before you know it, and then? You'll crawl on hands and knees because you'll no longer have the motor function to stand, and you'll eat from a bowl on the floor, just like a good little kitten."

Suddenly, things were not OK anymore.

She struggled in her bonds. The rough ropes opened up tiny scrapes in her arms, but she couldn't feel the pain. "You can't keep me like this for weeks! How am I supposed to use the can?"

Then, she remembered her pantslessness, and before he even spoke, she realized the answer.

"Whenever you need, I'll place a bucket underneath that chair."

***

Time passed. Christyn ruminated. Maybe she shouldn't have been so flip and glib with Jesse. Then again...maybe if she started to pretend to acquiesce to him, her initial resistance would make her performance more convincing. Then, his confidence in his ability to reign her in bolstered, he might be persuaded to permit her a favor, such as a phone call.

Jesse replaced the IV bag one more time and a while later, Estrella came in with a hotel lobby, Continental breakfast sized box of cereal. "Master says you need to eat." She tore the box open, grabbed Christyn by the throat, and poured the cereal into her mouth. A lot of it missed, landing on the floor or else down her shirt.

"You're not very good at this," said Christyn, when she wasn't attempting to crunch dry cereal in her already dry mouth. Shouldn't Estrella know how to serve food, after working in the restaurant industry? Or was she now so severely gaslighted that she had no concept of silverware anymore?

"Well, what exactly do you want from me, slave?"

"Well, for one, some milk. And maybe you could use a spoon?"

"Demanding brat." Estrella started to heave her bulk out of the room, when Christyn suddenly had an idea.

"Wait! Kind, beautiful Estrella. Sweet lady. Mistress."

Estrella quickly turned. Jesse had clearly been stingy with his affection, if Estrella was so easily swayed by being called a few nice names. "What is it, slave girl?"

"It's just that...you're so beautiful. I should wish to be beautiful for Master. Not as beautiful as you are, of course...but more beautiful than I am now. I'll need to eat, Estrella. And I really don't like cereal.

"Don't you want to make me more pleasing to our Master?"

Estrella's jaw tightened. Then slackened. "What do you want?"

"If my beautiful Mistress Estrella could bring her starving, pathetic charge some scrambled eggs with cheese, she will be most grateful," said Christyn. "In fact, if you'd like to bring me my phone, I could wire you the money."

"What a gracious girl you're becoming! That won't be necessary, though; I'll just use the cash in your bag."

Curses. Foiled again.

But at least the next time Estrella came in, she had a box of scrambled eggs, still steaming and warm. Between bites that she awkwardly spooned into Christyn's mouth, spilling a considerable bit in her lap, Christyn asked, "Does Master get angry when you spill on him like this?"

"Master prefers to feed himself. He likes to retain control," said Estrella.

"Seems like it should be a duty for his prized possession," said Christyn.

Estrella didn't respond to her. But over time, she continued to plant small seeds of doubt in Estrella's mind whenever she came to check up on her, little kernels of thought that would hopefully sprout into suspicions that Jesse didn't value her as much as he claimed. She was exceedingly kind to her, too, thanking her profusely for every little morsel of food and sip of water and minute of company. She addressed her with authority. Sometimes she spoke to her in Spanish. Estrella always seemed to regain some of her lucidity when she did.

And then the time came when she was forced to relieve herself in a bucket.

Jesse brought it in, Estrella standing at his side with a wet cloth. Christyn was too doped up to feel humiliated, but when she was finished and Jesse ordered Estrella to clean her up, she managed to pull herself enough together to form words.

"Oh, Master, don't make her do that."

Then, astonishingly, Estrella came around to Christyn's suggestion: "Master, perhaps Christyn should be able to attend to herself."

Huh.

Christyn thought that would take longer.

"If we untie only one of her hands, then surely--"

She never got to finish her sentence, as Jesse backhanded her hard enough to turn her around and make her fall on hands and knees.

"Slave," he said through clenched teeth, "you should be thankful for the opportunity to handle your Master's prized possession. Now, get up. Wipe out Christyn's ass like a good little pet. And then thank your Master, and get back on your knees, and lick his boots."

"I...I thought I was supposed to be your prized possession." Estrella's words were soft, but there was an anger in them coming from deep within her throat. She staggered to her feet. There was a metallic swish as Christyn realized she had drawn the knife she'd taken off of her, which she must have been concealing on her person. She made a lunge for Jesse, but he snatched the knife out of her hand with ease and with one swift motion, slashed her throat. She collapsed, and Jesse tutted disdainfully.

"Women."

***

Christyn was very docile after that. If Jesse could dispatch Estrella so impassively, she knew he would have no problem doing the same to her.

Her subdued silence was working in her favor. Jesse seemed to think that her inevitable loss of self was sooner coming than it was. She still had her wits secretly about her, but he had let his guard down, barely speaking to her, sparing her the domineering rants, for the most part.

As he was replacing her IV bag one morning, evening, whatever, he asked her, "What are you thinking, kitten?"

She was thinking it would be in her best interest to feign helplessness.

"Master...must submit to Master," she made herself drawl. "Want to submit to Master. Need to submit to Master. Feels...good."

"That's it, kitten. Now you're starting to get it." He ruffled her hair and smacked the back of her head with an open palm. "Any last requests before this pretty brain of yours turns to goo?"

Yes!

"Master would do that...for me?"

She had to play it up. Make him believe he had all the power. Get him drunk on it so he wouldn't see through to her intentions.

"Of course, kitten. I'm not a monster."

"Then can your gracious slave girl call Auralee and let her know I won't be home in time for supper? Can't be rude to an old friend."

"Certainly, kitten. In fact, if she's still at the same number, I still have her saved in my phone."


	37. THIRTY-SIX

**THIRTY-SIX**

Damian and Auralee booked a room at the Hotel Flamenco so they could wait for Christyn to call back without dealing with the noise in the Server House. They were still debating letting the other occupants know what had happened. On the one hand, maybe they should mobilize the troops. Whoever was holding Christyn hostage would likely be outnumbered by ninety servers. On the other hand, they had no information. They didn't know what her captor wanted with her. The whole house could hardly pull off a sneak attack at once, and whoever this mystery bad guy was, it was possible that if he felt threatened, he'd kill her.

"Besides, they'd probably just start freaking out and make it harder for us to figure out what's going on," said Damian. He was sitting at the desk in the hotel room in front of Auralee's computer, watching the screen and her phone for activity while she paced and took shots. Earlier that day, she had walked up the street to the liquor store for provisions no fewer than four times. The only reason she hadn't made a fifth trip was the store closed at 9 PM. That Auralee was as irresponsible as ever when put under pressure, but at least she had stopped on her way back to pick him up a snack three out of four times.

"What did she say to you?" he asked, reaching into the box of donuts she'd bought him earlier, only to find it empty. Probably for the best. Between the donuts, the bucket of fried chicken from before that, and the tamales from even earlier, he was painfully stuffed and queasy almost to the point of being feverish. For once, getting off on the sight of him, short of breath and filled to capacity, seemed the furthest thing from her mind. There was nothing kinky about it for him either; it's just that he was as incorrigible a stress eater as ever.

"Just that she was in a locked room and she didn't know how she got there. We don't know if this is the cops, or a business owner we've ticked off, or--"

"Auralee!" Damian exclaimed as her phone lit up with an incoming call. He checked the caller ID. He had been hoping to see Christyn's name, but no such luck. "Oh...nevermind. Who is 'conniving shithead'? Do you needa take this?"

Auralee stopped in her tracks. What little color her face had drained. "It's Jesse."

Damian made a grab for the phone. "Speaker," said Auralee. It was a wonder he managed to obey her command; he had one thing on his mind and that was telling Jesse off. He should have known that scumbag had something to do with all of this.

"Listen here, you sick fuck!" he snapped.

At the same time, Christyn's voice came through over the line. "Aura, darling, I need to tell you something. Oh...Damian?"

Her voice was breathy, hollowed, disembodied, and yet, she sounded so relieved to hear from him.

"Chrissy! Where are you? Me and Auralee finna trace your call--"

"Please don't," said Christyn. "I'm...I'm with Master. He knows what's good for me. I'm happy. I'm safe. Please leave me alone."

For a moment, he felt a disgust rise up in him. What had Jesse done to her? But something about her tone gave her away. There had been a complete devotion in her voice whenever she spoke of Jesse back when she was brainwashed. It wasn't there now. Her words shook. He could feel her desperation. She was of sound mind and was begging for help.

But she couldn't outright say it because Jesse was in the room with her.

Auralee reached over him and started typing commands into her software. Damian knew he had to keep Christyn on the line as long as it took. "Chrissy...how can you say that? After all we've been through?"

"Look at us, Damian. All we do is enable each other. We're slowly killing each other. I can't go on like this. I need Master to make my decisions for me."

"So you're just going to throw away everything we had?"

Christyn let out a shuddering exhale. "Don't look for me."

Auralee flashed a thumbs-up to signal she had a lock on Christyn's location.

"Fine. I guess this is goodbye, then…"

The line went dead.

Auralee snatched her phone and fiddled with the GPS before leading the way outside to her car. "What are you doing?" asked Damian as she tossed her empty vodka bottle into the parking lot and slid into the driver's seat.

"What's it look like?"

"You can't drive! You've been drinking a fuckton of vodka all day!"

"Look, Damian. Because of who I am, I could speed down the freeway with expired plates, switch lanes without signaling, run two red lights, strike five pedestrians, blow 0.2, and I'd probably be let off with a warning. You, on the other hand...if you got pulled over for burning a stop sign, there's a chance you'd be shot for it."

He wanted to point out that he could just as easily be killed in a car crash if he let her drive drunk, but his stomach hurt too much for him to focus on sustaining an argument. He hadn't been in this much pain since he was shanked. Reluctantly, he got into the passenger's seat.

They hadn't even been on the road for five minutes before he had to roll down the window and throw up.

"Sorry," he muttered as he settled back into the seat, squirming and trying to get comfortable. "I'll pay to have that washed."

"Don't worry about it. I've gotten sick in my old car loads of times and it was a lot nicer than this one."

He rolled his eyes before letting them fall shut. "Just don't drink when you drive."

"Actually…"

She sighed deeply.

"Okay, I've probably thrown up drunk in here. But I had the sickest season of my life after they botched my first surgery," she explained. "Granted, I wasn't making it better. I was drinking when they told me not to and still eating the foods I was used to, even if I couldn't eat them in the same quantities. I guess I just hoped that if I resisted my body's new limits as much as I could, my life would stay normal. But yeah, the first few months after the operation were a bitch."

"Keep talking," he murmured, eyes still closed. Her voice was very soothing. He was glad she had become a famous singer. A talent like hers deserved to be shared with the world. "Your family sucks, by the way."

"My parents suck. My brothers were actually on my side," said Auralee. "Ashton told them again and again I didn't need the surgery. JD...well, he was overseas at the time I went under, but when he came back and found out what happened, he was pissed. Ranting and raving about how they mutilated me. He's the one who put my dad in that chair."

Damian vaguely recalled seeing Auralee's paraplegic father once or twice at the bowling alley, but for some reason he'd thought the man had some sort of degenerative nerve condition.

"Well at least you're okay now, right?"

Auralee floored the gas.

***

"Forty thousand dollars. No? What about fifty thousand?"

It was Auralee on the phone with the third private security company she'd called from behind the wheel.

"Well, what if I made it a hundred?" She was struggling to keep the frustration out of her voice, but it was a losing battle. "You're really telling me that you can't spare a team of five men at most, for three hours including drive time, for the daughter of Deputy Kingston?"

Defeated, she tossed her phone into the cup-holder. "I should have expected as much. We're in the middle of a workers' rights revolution. Business owners are scared. A lot of them are giving in to their employees' demands, but even more are protecting themselves from retaliation if they don't. There's a shortage of armed professionals right now. Looks like it's just gonna be you and me. Hm...we should've thought to bring guns."

"If Chrissy was here, she'd have thought of that. We'd all be armed right now," said Damian.

"If Chrissy was here, we wouldn't be crossing city lines to go rescue her, numbskull," said Auralee. "You want a soda? I could go for a soda."

She pulled into a gas station and of course, picked out a bottle of malt liquor. Damian helped himself to a strawberry soda on her dime. He happened to have his bottle opener on him, so he decided to save the cashier the trouble of lending him one. After he popped the top off, the cashier gave him a long, apathetic look and said, "That was a twist."

***

"So can you like...say the word? Or is that off-limits since you had a white mom? I've always been confused about who can say it."

It was a long drive, and they were running out of conversation topics. Luckily, the GPS said they were only five minutes away from their destination.

"I don't know the rules, Auralee, I just try and not say it."

"Really? Not even with Zeke?"

"Zeke don't say it."

"What about with L'vonte? I know he says it."

"I don't talk to L'vonte much. I know he Chrissy's friend and all, but I'm his girl ex, it'd be weird."

"Well, what about when you're singing along to a rap song?"

"Bitch, I listen to country."

"I keep forgetting you're one of those guys who wants to buy a truck and fuck it. Ah well...I guess it's better than thinking you're classy for being able to read an analog watch."

"Those the ones with the hands?"

He could read one, but it always took him a while.

"Aight, my turn to ask the awkward questions. What's the craziest thing that's happened to you on tour?"

"Someone threw a whole bowl of quinoa at my head in Dallas once," said Auralee. "Alex beat the shit out of the guy and got arrested."

"Poor Alex."

"It actually wasn't so bad. They were gentle with him. Of course, you know why. I bailed him out as soon as he was processed and bought his way out of legal trouble, but the tabloids refused to be bought. My turn again. If Chrissy doesn't make it--"

"I already don't like this question."

"Listen. If anything happens to her, the whole Server House is going to be looking to you for leadership. Can you do it?" She fixed him with a serious look.

"Aura, something finna happen to us if you don't keep your damn eyes on the road."

***

The house looked mostly normal, except for a total lack of neighbors and a menacing shortage of windows. Damian guessed it was Jesse's second house: this definitely wasn't the sprawling estate he'd shown up to fucked up out of his mind the day Christyn threw Stella that party and ended up dumping Jesse in front of everyone. Jesse's car was parked outside, and Damian's first impulse was to vandalize it...but Christyn needed him. He could always cut the tires later.

He approached the door and contemplated how best to force entry. There was no window near the knob and he didn't have a lock pick on him. He turned around to see if Auralee had any ideas, only to find her standing by the side of the car, looking queasy. "What is it?"

"I...I found Chrissy's pants."

Shit. Now Damian felt sick.

He walked over to the car as Auralee pulled Christyn's pants out through the open window and started folding them. (Jesse must not have been expecting company. What a dumbfuck.) He was much more interested in her bag, though. He snatched it, raked through it, and quickly found her gun.

After a quick check to confirm it had plenty of bullets, he returned to the door.

"Wait!" said Auralee. "You can't shoot out the lock. You'll probably do more damage to yourself than the mechanism."

"You calling me an amateur?" He shot out all three sets of hinges and kicked the door down.

***

"Kitten? Are you alright? I was worried you'd fallen over."

Jesse was barging into Christyn's place of holding moments after the cacophony. Of course he wouldn't know what he had just heard. Why would he recognize a sound he had only heard once, maybe twice in his sheltered life of working a desk job and living in a mansion?

Christyn, on the other hand…

From her years living in a shoebox apartment on the shady side of Westheimer to her new life in a revolutionary bunker, she was intimately--one could even say comfortably--familiar with the sound of gunfire.

Any minute now, a team of armed guards on Auralee's payroll would be breaking down the door to rescue her.

She knew she had to keep Jesse in one place so her rescuers could get the jump on him. For days now, she had been preparing for this moment, feigning helplessness and gauging Jesse's reaction. He thought her mind was close to gone and he had become overattentive, as if wanting to witness the exact instant when she was lost for good.

"Master is so good to me," she drawled, fighting a smirk. "Of course, kitten is okay, as long as her Master is here to take care of her."

"That's right, isn't it?" He closed the gap between them, ran a hand through her hair, and as he reached the ribbon loosely securing her ponytail, he made a fist in it and yanked her head back so she was forced to stare right into his too-blue eyes.

"That's what you like, isn't it, Master?" she said, as she'd rehearsed it a million times in her head. "Knowing that soon I'll be completely beholden to you. It's enough to make you forget about everything else, isn't it? The thought of me brainless, completely beholden to you, because you designed it that way." He should have been shocked by her 'sudden' bout of coherency, but she could tell by the glazed look of complacency his face took on that he was too into her words to think straight. The repetition was lulling him, too. He'd clearly made a mistake when he decided to take her on as a would-be slave. She was too smart for him. "Doesn't the notion of my future on my knees for you make you feel powerful, Master? Almost like a high. And as you feel higher and higher, everything else seems to go away. No thoughts. No worries. No cares. No concerns."

For minutes on end, she continued to ramble on, and his eyes never left hers. She kept her voice steady as she allured him with fantasies of what was to come. Her uselessness, her thoughtlessness, her dependency.

"No thoughts, no worries, no cares, no concerns. Your only occupation being looking after your perfect, brainless, zombie slave girl. And...in a way...that makes you beholden to me."

Her wrists were bound, but her fingers were free, and as the sound of footfalls approached from outside the room and she heard the door creak open, she snapped and pointed at the ground.

Jesse fell to his knees in front of her. She raised one leg and held him in place with a heel on his shoulder.

Damian stepped out of the shadows then, and shot him point-blank in the head.

The blast barely affected Christyn, who slumped limply in her seat, her foot landing between Jesse's shoulderblades as his body fell to the floor. "Stay with me, Chrissy. Stay with me," Damian pleaded, his voice trembling while he carefully worked the needle out of her arm. "What was he shooting you up with?"

"Clearly it was some sort of muscle relaxant." Auralee's voice, and then the click of her heels. "Wow...horrifying as this is, imagine if I could set up a rig like this and pump pure glucose into Alex through the vein...he'd be up in the early 5's before Christmas."

The swift flick of Damian's pocketknife. "Auralee, quit thinking about feedism for one second and help her! I know you know how to break these knots." He sawed through the ropes that bound her left arm to the chair while Auralee expertly undid the knots around her right.

Once she was untied, Auralee handed her her handbag...and her pants. It was a struggle to get them on, as even untied, she was barely able to rise out of her seat to get them over her ass, she was so drunk. But Damian helped her, and soon, thankful for the restoration of her dignity, she felt herself being scooped into his arms, bridal style. "I can try and walk," she said, but he had her securely.

He carried her outside and guided her into the backseat of Auralee's SUV, never leaving her side. Auralee took some time, probably to load the corpse into the trunk for 'recycling'. "She dry enough to drive?" asked Christyn.

"She ran out of alcohol a while ago. She should make it."

Finally, Auralee slid into the driver's seat and the car started moving. Christyn let her body curl into Damian's in the backseat, her face buried against his soft chest, and began to weep--quietly at first, but then, every ounce of terror she'd been fighting to keep dormant throughout her ordeal came flooding to the surface, and she found herself sobbing in earnest, until the front of his shirt was thoroughly soaked with her tears.

"It's gonna be okay," he told her, pulling her in closer. She clung to him tightly, still crying hard enough to shake her entire body, at least, for a while. Then, he wrapped his arms around her, stabilizing her, and she stopped hyperventilating. Her eyes were still a pair of leaky faucets, but the terror was subsiding.

She shifted to the side a bit to breathe in, but even the moonlight was too harsh, and she soon found herself seeking shelter in him once more, her forehead pressed to his shoulder as she struggled to control her breathing. His warmth, his softness, his scent...everything about him brought her comfort. Eventually, she settled comfortably in his arms, her eyes swollen, but her body relaxed. She was going to be okay.

She was going to be okay.

"I know, Damian," she managed weakly. "I know...I know…"

He held her even tighter then, and murmured the words she needed to hear: "You know I got you."


	38. THIRTY-SEVEN

**THIRTY-SEVEN**

Christyn was out cold for a solid three days, but after that, she made a fast recovery. Damian would have been happy to attend to her every need while she rested some more, but after being tied up for all that time, she was eager to walk around again, even if she was a little unsteady on her feet. She called her boss at the hotel and explained her absence by saying she'd been in an automobile accident. Damian stole her idea to excuse his own sudden leave from work, and luckily, they bought it.

She returned to work as soon as she could hold a cocktail shaker without dropping it. She texted Damian frequently, though, and appreciated his proximity when they were both home. When he stuck by her side, his fear for her still lingering, she pulled him closer.

Stella Alba's body had been recovered from a closet in the house in Spring. Jesse Markham was now wanted for questioning as a person of interest in the homicide investigation, and his abrupt disappearance seemed to point to his guilt.

Christyn kept her ordeal on the down-low, or at least she tried to, not wanting to shake the Server House's confidence in her, but naturally, everyone found out anyway. They were pissed that they hadn't been called upon to participate in the rescue, but everyone came around in time for the wedding.

They held the ceremony on the grounds of the house. They decked the backyard out with tables and chairs rented from the banquet service somebody worked for, hung string lights, and posted flowers everywhere they would fit. Of course, Christyn wore black, always the contrarian. Even after a kidnapping, she looked radiant, and Damian spent much of the first dance with her stumbling over his feet with how distracted he was by her beauty. (That, and he didn't know the steps. He had meant to learn, but he had been a little preoccupied lately.)

As the song came to an end, Christyn said, "So, you finally got to be the hero...what did you think, sweetness?"

He exhaled and shook his head. "I just hope something like that never happens again."

"And now," announced Carlos, the guy who'd volunteered to DJ, "it's time for the groom and his mother and the bride and her father to take the floor for the second dance!"

"Oh, fuck," Damian muttered.

"Guess we forgot to tell him our families are all either incarcerated, estranged, or deceased," said Christyn. Then, to Carlos, she shouted, "I'm actually gonna sit this one out!"

Damian was about to do the same, but then Auralee tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Let's dance, kid."

She took the lead, and he let her have it. She obviously knew what she was doing. "You're pretty good at waltzing," he said.

"This is a rumba. But thanks!" She smiled brightly. "I know all the basic ones. Waltz, rumba, samba, tango...I'm also versed in Japanese tea ceremony and fluent in Spanish, French, Gaelic, Mandarin, and Portuguese."

"Show off, why don't you."

"Oh! I have something of a wedding present for you and Chrissy. Really for the whole Server House." She giggled and spun him. He didn't mind it so much. But if she tried to dip him, he was out. "I liquidated several of my mother's properties in South America and acquired a few apartment buildings closer to home. There's one on Washington close to the Heights, one on Bellaire close to Chinatown, one in Memorial close to the bowling alley, and I'm looking at buildings in Kingwood and Katy. If y'all want them, of course. If not, I suppose I can just rent them out like regular apartments, but I figured, sleeping twelve to a room has been great for building solidarity, but these folks could really use more space, and it'll be better for a lot of their commutes."

"That's great, Auralee! Would the rent still be ten bucks?"

"Of course! They'll just be responsible for the utilities, and their own groceries."

"I'll talk to Chrissy, but I'm sure she'll say yes. We'll probably tell 'em in the morning."

The song finished, and Auralee returned to Alex, who was hanging out by the buffet. "Bout time," he said, clapping Damian on the back before wrapping a thick arm around Auralee's narrow waist. "After you two were gone for so long at the hotel, I was beginning to worry you weren't gonna give her back."

"Are you kidding? I was just hoping your ass didn't get too comfortable while you got your break," joked Damian, before leaving to find Christyn.

She was talking to a pair of middle-aged women in Spanish over flutes of champagne. "Damian, this is Rosa and Maria. They practically raised me while I was living at my aunt's house." Rosa shook his hand enthusiastically and said something to him in Spanish. Though his Spanish was improving, she spoke too rapidly for him to understand. "She says she knows you'll make me very happy," Christyn translated. Then Maria said something to Rosa and they both laughed. "She says," said Christyn again, "that with my aptitude in the kitchen, she always knew whatever man I married was destined to get fat."

Wow. Straight to the point. But their laughter sounded more endeared than malicious, and Damian decided he didn't mind the comment.

Soon it was time to cut the cake.

After carving them each a slice, she led him to a table in the back. They sat down in adjacent chairs and for a minute just gazed into each other's eyes. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve daydreamed about us here, just like this, feeding each other wedding cake,” she said, and forked off a bite from the plate she was holding to raise it up to his lips. He let her feed him half the slice--he was already contentedly full from the fabulous reception dinner, and he didn’t want to be too full to please her once they took off to the hotel. After the sex, though, he would be all too happy to beg her to stuff him stupid.

“My turn?” he asked, holding a forkful of cake in front of her face.

She opened her mouth...but he drew back at the last minute, laughing. “Gotcha!”

“Damian! Don’t be mean.”

“Okay, I got you this time, I promise.” He pushed the fork toward her...she eagerly awaited…

And he took the whole plate of cake and jammed it in her face.

“DAMIAN! YOU LITTLE SHIT!”

He took off running and she gave chase, but she didn’t make it far in her high heels and soon, she tripped on the train of her dress. He went back for her then, picking her up with one arm hooked behind her knees and the other supporting her back.

"Couldn't save it for the threshold, could you?"

“Are you okay?”

“Just a little tumble in the grass, it’s nothing.” She laughed and wound both arms behind his neck. The care with which she avoided his throat didn’t go unnoticed. He appreciated it, but he trusted her completely now. He would have been alright with her touching him anywhere. He knew his sweet girl would always take good care of him.

He brought her in and kissed her deeply, licking the icing off her lips as he pulled back.

It was going to be a sweet life.

***

Just a few months after the wedding, Christyn was offered a promotion to the position of field manager by ABC Hospitality. The job entailed checking in at events to which the agency was contracted, most of them in downtown Houston, and talking to clients to make sure everything was running smoothly, or intervening if they weren't. She accepted the offer on the condition that she be allowed to continue picking up bartending shifts. The bar was important to her. The way she put it to Damian, "If I'm in control of the bottles, they aren't in control of me."

Esteban was beside himself when she put in her two weeks at the hotel, wondering where on Earth he was supposed to find a bartender competent enough to replace her. Her response: "You know I appreciate everything you've done for me. But I wouldn't recommend my worst enemy to come work for Rob and Syl."

She and Damian moved into the new Server House on Washington. By that time, most of the others had already relocated. In fact, they were among the last to leave. Once the house in Richmond was vacated, they put it on the market, but they only managed to fetch 150 stacks for it. Apparently, previous owners from before their time had reported paranormal activity. They'd never noticed, but it would've been hard to notice with so many people in the house making noise all the time.

They stayed on Washington for a couple years, but then Christyn got pregnant with their first child, and after talking it over, they decided it might not be their last. So they moved into a townhouse on the west side of town, outside the loop but before the beltway, with a couple of extra bedrooms just in case.

As Damian pulled up in the driveway one evening, he noticed Christyn's stupidly small whip already in the driveway. She must have left work early to relieve Auralee of babysitting duty. When he entered the house, she greeted him at the door with a kiss on the cheek. "How was your visit with Dr. Castillo?

The whole house smelled like banana bread. He was looking forward to breakfast these next few days.

"It was alright. We talked about the usual stuff."

Damian had started seeing Dr. Castillo a few years back. That was the year a new kitchen manager had started at the law firm. Everyone agreed Damian had deserved to be promoted instead, and the sentiment grew stronger in the kitchen with each passing shift. The new guy was a complete tyrant, denying cooks their breaks, micromanaging the line, and even going so far as having a salad prep prosecuted for theft for taking home some taco meat that was going to be thrown out anyway.

The new guy only lasted three months before the Server House got rid of him, but those three months had wreaked havoc on Damian. For one thing, his stress eating got out of control. Not that he minded when he hit 260--Christyn wasn't complaining either--but eating to bury his problems was never as pleasurable as eating simply because he enjoyed it.

His anxiety got worse, too, as did his drinking, and one day when he was getting ready for work, dreading having to go in, he found himself hyperventilating with his hands braced against the bathroom counter. His heart beat too hard and too fast and his vision was swimming. Between shuddering breaths, he begged Christyn to call him an ambulance: he was sure he was having a heart attack.

The last thing he thought before the emergency response team showed up was, thank God little Carmyn was too young to understand what was happening.

Only, when he got to the emergency room, once he'd calmed down, his vitals all came back normal. The doctor said his BMI was 'concerning,' but there was nothing urgently wrong with him. The doctor also said his symptoms were consistent with a panic attack, and recommended he seek the help of a mental health professional.

It wasn't a bad idea. He knew Christyn was good at consoling him, but it wasn't fair to her to expect her to be his doctor on top of his wife and the mother of his child.

Auralee put him in touch with Dr. Castillo, a therapist friend of hers who was plus-size friendly and specialized in addiction counseling, but also had experience working with anxiety patients. At first, they talked about his health anxiety. He received an initial diagnosis of hypochondria and they worked their way through a cognitive behavioral therapy workbook written to address paranoia surrounding medical issues. Though the doctor never disparaged him about his weight, they did address his stress-eating. Damian had been the one to bring it up. He wanted to get to a point where his relationship with food was purely positive, and with the doctor's help, he found a renewed interest in art as a means of stress relief. Eventually, Damian opened up about his past, and what his sister had done to him. He'd cried during that visit, and felt thoroughly emasculated for doing so, but after he got it all out of his system, he felt better. The doctor told him family trauma really wasn't his specialty, but that he would like to continue working with him: with how long it had taken him to talk about Lily, it could be detrimental to his progress if he had to start over with a whole new therapist. They opened up the DSM together and Damian received a new diagnosis of complex PTSD. It was a bit of a shock, but they continued to work through it. He felt like he was getting better every day, just from having an outlet he didn't feel bad about venting to, since he was paying the guy.

"Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something," said Christyn, but just then, their three year old tottered enthusiastically into the living room.

"Daddy's home! Daddy's home!" Little Carmyn tripped and landed on her hands and knees, but Damian knew better than to make a fuss over her. At her young age, she already had such a personality. She would get terribly embarrassed and cry if he or Mom worried about her. So, he let her stumble back to her feet, muttering, "Estoy bien, estoy bien," before running up to him and hugging him around the knees.

"Aww, that's my strong baby girl!" He beamed. "Can I pick you up?"

"Pick me up! Pick me up!"

He gathered her in his arms and kissed her chubby cheek. She was so perfect. She had thick straight hair just a shade lighter than her mother's natural brown and his own wide, curious brown eyes and dimpled smile.

"Talk over dinner?" said Christyn, using a side-hug as an excuse to give him a squeeze. He was back down to 240-ish now, just from not compulsively stress-bingeing on junk, and there were times when he genuinely missed his 260 days. But then Christyn would talk about how much softer he was than the last time he was at 240 and how much she adored him now...indeed, whenever his body changed, she decided the latest version was her favorite, and it made him feel so sweetly, unconditionally loved.

Damian nodded. "C'mon, baby girl, let's go wash our hands before dinner, okay?"

Dinner was fried shrimp, tails off for the baby, with pan fries and roasted broccoli, all of which Carmyn approved of enthusiastically. She had initially rejected greens when they first introduced her to them, but Christyn had remedied this by responding to her reluctance with, 'Hey kid, can I have your veggies?' every time she refused to try them, until she figured she must be missing something if her mother liked them so much and finally agreed to give them a chance. Ever since, she had been a fan of greens.

"So what's the big news?" asked Damian, pushing aside his second empty plate. Christyn had once again outdone herself on the stove.

"The agency has offered me a bartending gig."

"Great! You love those!"

She played with her fork awkwardly. "It's with the Rio Grande Steamboat Company. It would take me away all summer," she said. "Every year. I'm gonna say no, of course."

He didn't miss the wistful note in her voice.

"Why? It sounds like fun, and you love the water."

"I'd need my TWIC card, though."

"What's that gonna cost you, three hundred?"

"One twenty-five."

Sounded like she'd already done research. "Pocket change. And I bet you'd get loads of benefits, like discounts on food and drinks…"

"Oh, we can't drink on board. But we get three free shift meals a day from the main dining area, and once we leave state lines, we can gamble."

And Christyn was a prodigy at blackjack. If there was one thing she could count even better than calories, it was cards.

"Look, Chrissy, this is obviously your dream job."

"But what about our daughter?"

Over in the next seat, Carmyn was standing her last piece of broccoli upright on her plate with her fork. "Mommy, look, it's a baby tree."

"She'll have you the rest of the year. Besides, she has a huge extended family, between Zeke and Beans and Auntie Aura. And I know I'm not the sharpest knife in the box, but I won't, like, drown in the bathtub without you, if that's what you're worried about," said Damian. "If you won't do it for yourself, at least do it for the revolution." When she gave him a quizzical look, he sighed. Did he have to spell it out for her? And she was supposed to be the smart one. "There's only so much we can do if we're all in one city. But if you had a job where you could travel? Imagine it: Server Houses from here to Puerto Rico, or wherever."

A smile spread across her face. "Colorado. The cruises literally go up the river."

"Colorado, then. But it can only happen if you get out there and spread the good word."


	39. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

They made a yearly tradition of it, driving to the coast to pick Christyn up at the end of summer. Every year it seemed like a shorter trip. The coastline drew closer all the time, but it wasn't until last year, when Galveston went under water during hurricane season and didn't emerge, that Damian realized the gravity of the situation.

Christyn had always talked about the impending doom of climate change.

Carmyn was fourteen now, curvy and early-developed like her mother, but her siblings (Mercedes, 10, and Ventura, 6), were still small enough that they all fit comfortably into the backseat of the Fiat.

Was everyone back there really comfortable, though?

Periodically, Damian would hear Carmyn's triumphant declaration of, "Punch buggy, silver! No punchbacks!" followed by Ventura's gasp and subsequent whine.

"Carmyn, honey, you can't do that."

"Why not? I'll let him punch me if he sees it first."

"Yes, but you're older and quicker than he is and you can punch harder."

"Don't worry, Dad, I'll get her back next time. You ain't raise no bitch," said Ventura, and Damian sighed with the knowledge that he couldn't even reprimand his son: Ventura had heard the word from him, after all.

"Look, buddy, just don't say shit like that at school, okay?"

Despite his resolve, Ventura had nothing on his sister when it came to Punch Buggy.

It wasn't that Carmyn was mean-spirited; she just had a lot of energy and didn't know her own strength.

Well, okay. She had a bit of a malicious streak, but if she had truly meant to injure, Ventura would be taking a lot more damage. Back when she was in fifth grade, Mercedes in first, Mercedes had taken up her mother's preoccupation with the environment and started saving her used paper towels until she could find a recycling bin. The other kids branded her weird for it and bullied her, so Carmyn did what any older sister ought to and beat the stuffing out of them. That had been a fun parent-teacher conference.

What went on in the backseat was just lighthearted play to Carmyn, but nevertheless, Damian felt he had to intervene. The next time Damian heard, "Punch Buggy, green!" he pulled into the next gas station. "Who wants candy?"

He let the kids pick out whatever they wanted from the convenience store, and before they got back into the car, he said, "Alright, let's take a vote: who thinks Carmyn should ride shotgun for the rest of the trip?"

Everyone's hand shot up.

After a few more minutes on the road, Damian seized his opportunity: "Punch Buggy, yellow," he said, and of course, he didn't punch his daughter. More like lightly fist-bumped the side of her arm. But, having been shown up, she stopped playing the game. In fact, she was quite silent until they passed a familiar campaign sign by the side of the road reading, RE-ELECT DISTRICT ATTORNEY EZEKIEL THOMAS.

"Hey look, it's Uncle Zeke's sign!"

"They need to take that down. He already won," said Mercedes.

Indeed, Zeke had soared up the ranks in politics in the last decade, while Damian had contented himself with having finally gotten his modest but coveted promotion to kitchen manager at Zeke's former firm. He was happy for Zeke, and not just because he could curry favor with him. During his last term, he had reopened Damian's father's case, and in light of testimony from new character witnesses, the judge ruled that he had been acting in self-defense and reduced his sentence to time served. One of the witnesses was Damian's maternal aunt Melody, who testified that she knew in her heart that Matilda had struck first and any man who was in a relationship with her had his life in danger. At the time of her sister's death, she was so spiteful towards Matilda for past grievances that she had wanted nothing to do with her or her family. But the years had softened her heart, and she now wished she had stepped forward to take Damian in. Damian had no regrets. If his aunt had adopted him, he might never have started working in a restaurant to make ends meet, and he might've never met the love of his life.

Auralee and Alex, too, had flourished, their band having attained worldwide fame. Their sound had shifted recently from grungy heavy metal to a more symphonic vibe, with Alex on electric violin. He said it was because Auralee's talent and vocal range deserved better than to be confined to angry screaming, but Damian had a hunch it had more to do with the fact that at as he approached the late 300s, it was getting harder for him to hold a guitar with his gut in the way. They were still waiting for Damian and Christyn's RSVP to their show when their tour landed in Houston in a month. Damian would have to check to see whether it was on a school night.

Soon, they arrived at the port, where Christyn was waiting with her bags on the ground at her side. Damian parked the car and emerged to help her with them, closely followed by their son.

"Mommy, mommy!" Ventura jumped with arms outstretched, begging to be picked up. He was the most attached to Christyn out of all their children, although Damian suspected he was seeking not only his mother's affection, but an escape from the reach of his sister's fists. Come the start of term, he was signing that girl up for the wrestling team.

Christyn picked Ventura up obligingly, balancing him on her hip, before moving in to press a kiss to Damian's lips. "Why am I even surprised to see you once again wasting away without me?"

Every year he lost a little weight in her absence, just from spending significantly less time in bed. It was never any more than ten pounds, and he didn't feel any different, but she swore he always lost weight in the face first and she could tell right away. "I guess that's what I get for being away so long. Ah well...I'll have that fixed in two weeks, watch me," she said with a smirk.

"Mommy," said Ventura, "why do you have to work so far for so long every year?"

"She's spreading propa--" Mercedes started, but Damian put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a look to silence her. Ventura was still too young to know about the revolution. They would tell him eventually, but for now, he and Christyn agreed that he should remain innocent.

Mercedes was probably too young to know, too, but she was the sharpest of the three and had a knack for knowing things she shouldn't. Damian would never forget the day when an eight-year-old Mercedes asked her mother over dinner, 'What does FFA stand for?'

'Future Farmers of America,' Christyn had answered without missing a beat.

'Okay...then what are taxes?' Mercedes had asked, and Christyn's face turned bright red knowing her middle child had used her computer and stumbled upon her porn folder.

"Because this gig on the steamboat is Mommy's job that makes the most money," Christyn explained to Ventura, "which we'll need if you or your sisters decide you want to go to college."

It was true; Christyn's work on the steamboat paid very well. She was tipped generously on top of an $18 hourly rate, though she made the majority of her money at the blackjack tables.

"What's college?" asked Ventura.

"It's extra school you can go to if you want."

"Eww, extra school?"

"It's not so bad. Well, Mommy and Daddy never went, so I guess we wouldn't know. But you get to pick your favorite thing, and that's all you have to learn about!"

"I really like whales!" said Ventura.

"Well then, you might like to study marine biology!"

At Ventura's insistence, Christyn sat next to him on the ride home, with Carmyn in the front once more.

***

They arrived home at two on the dot. The kids were at play for a couple hours, leaving Christyn and Damian plenty of time for a tumble in the sheets. After locking the door, she pushed him to his back on the bed and couldn't wait to strip his clothes off. Ah, yes--he could tell she'd missed him.

Their shower in the aftermath was not so much about getting clean as making out under the water, and he'd barely toweled off before she attacked him again, this time pulling him on top of her.

By the time she was finally satisfied, he was spent and fighting for breath. She lay pressed flush against him, tucked between his arm and his doughy side. The pregnancies had rounded out her figure by about twenty pounds total, but she still felt small and feminine against his larger, much softer frame. It was nice; it made him feel like a comfort to her. He could have stayed with her like that indefinitely, but about that time, his stomach growled and gave away his hunger. All he'd had on the road was a sweet tea and a bag of chips that he'd bought at a gas station. Granted, it was a share-size bag of chips, but it was no substitute for real food. "If I could live off your love alone, I would," he said.

"There'd be too much. You'd explode. It would be a horrible way to die," Christyn responded matter-of-factly.

Damian rolled his eyes but chuckled in spite of himself, combing a hand through her hair. "It's good to have you back, sick sense of humor and all."

He would have made dinner, but she insisted he let her do it. "You cook for a living, and besides, I want to make sure my skills are still up to scratch."

Once downstairs, she enlisted Carmyn's help in putting together a veritable feast of shrimp skewers, noodle stir-fry with various greens, and some sort of rich, hearty Vietnamese beef stew served with baguettes. (After all these years she still couldn't bring herself to touch any meat other than shellfish, and everything but the shrimp had to still be in its shell, but she saw no reason to deprive her family.) Damian knew from sneaking samples of everything while his wife and firstborn worked that she definitely had not lost her touch.

As he set the table, Christyn turned to the two younger children, pulling from a shelf a special syrup she made by dissolving sour candies in water, and asked, "Y'all want shots, or you want it mixed?" It was a tradition she had invented when Carmyn and Mercedes were little girls so they would feel included when she and Damian were drinking. Carmyn was old enough now that they let her have a glass of wine with them--they figured if they gave it to her, it would discourage her from sneaking it.

"Mixed, please," said Mercedes, while Ventura exclaimed,

"SHOT!"

"Alright, kiddo, but you asked for it." Christyn filled a glass with ice and poured a five-count of the sour syrup into it for her middle child before topping it with lemon soda. Then, she filled a shot glass for her littlest. When Ventura downed his shot in one, his whole face puckered and he coughed, to Mercedes and Carmyn's hysterical laughter.

After dinner, Carmyn retreated to her room to gossip on the phone with her friends, while the younger two raced for the back door. "Hey, kids, remember to watch TV for thirty minutes to let dinner settle before you go outside," Christyn called after them. They groaned, but obliged.

As Damian stood up to help her with the dishes, he asked, "Do you really do that so they don't puke in the lawn, or are you tryna make them distrust the mainstream media? Cause they hate TV."

Christyn turned around and tossed the dish towel she was holding over her shoulder. "Who says I'm not just buying us extra time for another round in the sack?" She placed one hand on his waist and the other above his navel, where she playfully applied some pressure and looked into his eyes with the most devious grin on her face. "There's still some dessert left, and you, it appears, still have room."

That was all it took for him to spring yet another erection. If he didn't know any better he'd think this woman had him under a spell.

***

After dark, the kids came back inside and got ready for bed. Christyn and Damian were still wrapped up in each other. They knew Ventura knew how to brush his teeth by now, so they figured they could let the kids go through their evening routines unsupervised. Only, after the sounds of water running from downstairs faded, a knock sounded at the door. Damian quickly slipped on a shirt and some sweatpants, while Christyn put on her bathrobe and answered the door.

There stood Mercedes and Ventura, their eyes wide and eager. "Mom, now that you're home, Ventura wants one of your scary stories."

Damian knew the thing Ventura missed most when his mom was away was her scary stories, but he suspected it was not only for his sake that Mercedes asked on his behalf. Physically, she was the most like Damian, with her darker complexion and thick black curls, though she was tall and skinny like her aunt Lily. She had Christyn's mind, though, her quick sharpness, and her ability to get what she wanted without directly asking for it. Ventura, on the other hand, had straight dark hair that stuck out in every direction and blue eyes like Christyn's late father. He had her pale skin and distinctly Asian facial structure, too, but he was a shit-talker and a thrill-seeker just like Damian. They'd already had to take him to the hospital twice for jumping off of high things and meeting an unfortunate consequence.

“You want to hear a scary story? Alright, I actually have a new one." Christyn picked him up and carried him to his room, where she sat him down on the bed. Sure enough, Mercedes followed at her heels, sitting down on the floor once they'd arrived at their destination. Damian, too, lingered in the doorway, wondering what Christyn had dreamed up on her latest work voyage. "This is one of your dad’s favorites, although I don’t think he’s heard it quite like I tell it. I've been working on the delivery all summer. It takes place in what we now know as Saxony. The year was 1316, when the Great Famine of Europe was in full swing. Torrential rains had stunted the growth of crops such that food had become scarce, and even back then, scarcity was the mother of opportunity for capitalists. The lords of the land saw their chance to profit off the high demand for an unprecedentedly small food supply, and jacked up prices accordingly. For example, within a year, the price of grain had inflated by 320%, meaning peasants could no longer afford bread. Many starved to death, and many more lost the battle to illness, as malnutrition weakened their immune systems. If you walked into the city streets, you’d find the air reeked of death."

This didn't sound like any story Damian had heard before, but he was hooked, even if it was dark. "Damn, girl, you right, this is scary."

“As I was saying...about a week’s journey on foot from any of these streets, there was a cottage in the woods, and in the cottage, there lived a poor woodcutter and his second wife, his first wife having passed away tragically, and his daughter of about ten, and son maybe four years her junior. Most modern retellings depict the children as a pair of blondes, but I don’t really like that; I think the archetype of the blond-haired, blue-eyed, ‘Master Race’ protagonist is largely a product of Nazi propaganda."

Around the word 'woodcutter' was where Damian started to recognize the story. He chuckled softly and shook his head.

“But back on topic, I’ve always pictured the children as a couple brunettes, just like you two. They were intelligent children, and resourceful, and they cared for each other more than anything else in the world, and their names, we have learned, were Hansel and Gretel.”

She wound a riveting tale, full of deception and intrigue and nitty-gritty details on common cooking techniques of the fourteenth century. By the time she reached 'happily ever after,' Ventura was dozing, but Mercedes was still quite alert. "But what happened to the German economy?" she asked.

"That's a story for another night, darling."

"I think Auntie Aura told us this story before," said Ventura between yawns, "but her version was a little different. She said the kids were both eighteen."

Once the kids were all asleep, Christyn got on the phone, pacing the kitchen as she hissed into the receiver, "Auralee, have you been telling my six-year-old pornographic bedtime stories?"

Damian poured her a big glass of wine. She took it out of his hand and drained it.

"What do you mean 'not too pornographic'?" she demanded, slamming the glass onto the island countertop. "Any amount of pornographic is too pornographic, Auralee, he's six!"

The argument went on for another few minutes before Christyn hung up. "Is it too much to ask that our children be allowed to remain innocent?"

"I mean, I agree, Aura was completely out of line," said Damian. "But we was never innocent, and we turned out okay."

After some contemplation, she said, "I guess you're right," hit the kitchen light, and followed him back to bed.


End file.
